genocide again

The leaves crack beneath his feet as he makes his way through the forest. Birds, somewhere, flutter between the leaves which let in patterns of light. A breeze goes between them, a reminder of last night's storm. The day's heat has not settled yet.

There are moments in one's life when it is important not to think, but to run, fast, away from one's thoughts. The boy let his feet follow the familiar path. He felt the forest knew him, now, recognised him. Its nooks and crannies were there as ancient companions, promisers of secrecy and protection.

The forest leads him to a glade. A fallen tree creates a barrier, and, on the fallen leaves and among the beetles resting on moss, he lets his knees buckle and his heart sink. His eyes glaze over, and he stays crouched, for a long time, though there is no one here to count the minutes.

He remembered the moment he'd come home to an empty house. The unexpected silence had made his ears ring. He sought out his aunt, his grandfather, his uncle.

"Where is my mother?" he had asked.

They'd shaken their heads. Without her, his father sat sullen and the meal dragged on in unanswered questions, the spaghetti drying on their plates. When will she be back? I don't know Have you called the police? Yes Will they help? Can they find her? No. Where is she? In the police station Did she do anything wrong? Nothing, except be from the wrong country. They'd all gone to bed early.

The boy hadn't slept, not that night nor the next nor the night after that. He'd listened, chest clenched, for the sounds of a car, a front door swinging. Mornings would come and he would stand, bleary and nauseous, to face another day.

The shock was wearing off when his certainty she would return, that everything would be alright, was shattered. His father told him she had been found guilty of theft and was being deported. What theft? No one knew. But everyone else at school started seeking the boy out about it.

The boy looks back up at the sky, and sees his mother's face in it. He wants to find her, to forget her, to hate her, to love her. He cannot imagine how much worse life would become if she came back, for the older kids have threatened him about it. They tell him she was not his mother but the devil. So he tries to want to forget, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees her, feels again her arms and the smell of her hair.

He wishes he could live inside those memories forever.