They lined up, one by one, on either side of me—the sturdy and non-sturdy grade one boys. As the cordon of rude grade six girls confronted me and became more clamorous and defiant, plying me with unwanted questions and refusing to back off, I felt and saw out of the corner of my eye the small boys approach and form a solidarity with me, their faces serious and firm. This was love, love unspoken, but they were there for me in my time of need, silently stating their support and warning to the girls not to go too far. 

WAITING FOR ME

Amidst the sand, the broken concrete walls,

children are waiting for me.

While I shiver in my arctic land,

they inhabit my mind daily.

They are dark and they never saw a skyscraper.

There are always the sand and rocks to stumble on.

There’s the heavy ocean, not a friend.

Here in my ultra-civilization, where everything

must be new and beautiful, light and airy,

I’m thinking of stick shacks, moldy wood,

of where everything is used and unfixed.

They are proud and they never used a washing machine.

Yes, I’m living in my world, but—

my blaring wants and needs are in another place.

When I make my journey, will they welcome me?

Will they remember me and excuse my pallor?