I was thirteen when I saw him, looking underweight and tan as he stood there, hands gripping at the handle of the large bag. He squints, the sun beaming on his face. The trees shade some of the rays with each gust of wind. The mosquitos ***** on my skin pinching like needles. I am bothered except for him, so accustomed to the feeling on his skin. It’s 2009, three years after my last visit to the land from which he comes, from which he sailed into the ocean on a makeshift raft full of others with similar hopes, dreaming, their eyes fixed on the horizon miles away from freedom.
(To the style of Natasha Trethewey’s “History Lesson”)