Eleven

And I feel eleven again. Cuddling under my navy blue with pink,yellow and green sickle-cell printed comforter, in the depth of Fall. I slowly pull the comforter off my head, my tiny little fingers pulling, my limbs shaking. Eyes Wide Open. Outside my window I see a shadow. No, its not a shadow-its real. A real gunman, with his AK-47 pointed directly at my head. Bulls Eye. I quickly pull the navy-blue sickle-celled comforter over my head, breathing quickly. Breathe.. Did I feel something, hear something.. No its my imagination.

I spend all night listening intentioned, looking in the night, nocturnal-vision blinding.

And then there was light, the light of Fajr, the dawn where slowly the darkened sky lightens, and my room becomes brightened. Slowly, color is restored and outside my window are only bushes, behind the gridded rails and large oversized windows.

Without even looking at my own image, I sensed the fear around me. Two sheriff's department men with their K9 searching, looming, looking, inspecting. Wondering, asking " Are you nervous?" Of course I'm nervous. I am no longer the victim, but now somehow the prey. Could it be in my bag, in my socks. Could I be dangerous, ready to kill?

I once thought I was a target, but now I am targeted. I am afraid, and worried at the same time. Worried about being killed, worried about being thrown to the K9's and AK47s.

But I'm once again I'm helpless, not really free, although I believe, feel, sense that I am. But that is freedom, the illusion of being truly free from the grasps of captivity, of life, of love, of living.



The Fear.

And now, I am eleven, some thirteen years later. And eleven is just as scary.