The Weight of Iron

We carry things that have no weight, yet they pull us toward the earth. A house that no longer stands. A door that has been unhinged for decades. We hold onto the metal, the cold shape of a lock, as if the physical object could anchor a ghost. Memory is a heavy coat in the middle of summer. It does not protect us from the heat, but we refuse to take it off. We walk through the dust, through the wreckage of what was promised, and we grip the iron until our knuckles turn white. It is not a burden, exactly. It is a way of proving that we were once somewhere else, that we belonged to a room, a street, a name. If we let go, the wind might take the rest of us, too. What happens when the hand finally opens?

Yousef Deeb has taken this image titled The Key of Hope. It reminds us that some things are held not for their use, but for their truth. Does the weight of the past ever truly leave us?