I think about my
All my cousins,
the babies and the boys,
my only remaining grandparent,
I may barely know them
but like a fighter who has lost a limb
I miss their presence.
Our parents are our ties
if they survived the swarms of bullets
if they are close
if they are at peace
if lost memories don’t make them shiver.
No child wants to be a refugee when she grows up
no one wants to be a branch,
cut off from the trees that nurtured her
no one wants to float across oceans,
withering away every time he hits a rock.
Seas apart, we find our roots on social media
we’ve adapted and been adopted,
new families, new branches, new roots
trying to flower in the voids aching within our hearts.
Photo by Rada Akbar.
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