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.