Ten front doors

We moved houses twice.
From appartement in the center to a home facing an asylum.
And eventually a house in a tiny, tiny village.

All our doors colored the same imaginary colors.
By arrival we would paint them with our eyelashes.
Blinking the colors blue, white and red onto our front door canvasses. Representing our nations presented on a platter.

At the beginning of January 1990,
my mother stepped out of the hospital into those stacks of dusty snow.
The frozen sparkles defined my love for the cold.
But to showcase the freckles of the sky we needed clarity for our eyes and so all the shades of blue became the color of my mind.

I remember vivid shades of a glowing scenery.
My blood was filled with the chills of powdered snow.
But I knew when the sun came out, the world would bloom.
And so red became the color of my heart.

That tiny, tiny village hadn’t much to offer.
It was nothing compared to the bustling city 1300 kilometers behind me.
But soon it was filled with desires and cheers of a steady life
and silence became excitement.

I remember giggles and squeals roaring from our throats.
I can recite our joys and hopes as if they were songs.
I tried to scratch crayon onto the walls that we built to house our colorful youth. So, by the time I decided to move houses,
white became the base that I could cover with laughter.

Every time I settled for a new door or dorm
I had to paint them using one pair of eyelashes.
I had to do it all alone.
I had no knowledge of stripping or sanding.
I didn’t know the difference between varnish or stain.
So, when my eyelashes became stiffened from forgetting to soak them in turpentine I doubted my capabilities.

I seconded if there weren’t walls between my countries which I’d never seen.
I wondered if the colors red over here matched the color red overseas
and if the color in my heart shared the same color code.
By questioning the shades of my soul I saw everything differently.
Suddenly those walls started to crack and so did my certainty.
My carpet was weaved with confidence and familiarity.
And those threads reassured me who I was.
The long strokes of paint transformed into to chips
which rained down on me like the snow of 1990.
Every piece in my home surrounding me used to keep me grounded but now, the colors muted and the door to my home became dull and grey.

What I thought was the rainbow of my lifeline now was stripped from its core. I didn’t know what colors fit my spirit anymore.
I didn’t recognize the tones of my heart.
And I started to miss the blue, white and red
which I had blinked over and over again.

So, I applied for the same color palette in a different home.
Although I was advised not to.
I filled in several forms in black and white.
Although I was advised not to.
In multiple languages I would speak on the phone.
Although I was advised not to.
But during the process of doubting my countries I discovered our shared rainbows were weaved into our homes

and a home is a skin in which we live.

So every time I blink, I paint my whole world red, white and blue.