Mahmoud

A true story

My mother and I stood in the Afghan refugee camp

Solemnly and nervous, I stared as they stared back

"This is where I came from," she said to me

Nonetheless I horribly realized I still couldn't feel empathy

I found my arms bandage around my body

In a shameful effort to conceal my clothes.

Their wide eyes reflected their war striken lives

So I knew there was no way to disguise

The disconnection painfully endured.

Though desperate to kindle a relationship,

I rehearsed some Farsi words

Until I was ready and assured

But before I could recite what I rehearsed

An innocent, two year old boy approached me first.

Immediately he cuddled in my arms

I had never met someone, young or old, with so much charm

We giggled and laughed as he rested his sunburnt, head on my chest.

I was foolishly pleased with myself, until I heard what he said next.

"Madaram mayboshee, khala jaan?"'

Would you be my mother, dear aunt?

My arms tightened around him

I told him not to say those things because his parents would be saddened

Mahmoud told me he has no parents. Only his three brothers.

My arms tightened around him.

From the other refugees, they explained to me his mother's death from birth

I felt my heart break in two, but they simply shrugged not knowing what else to do

In that moment, it all became a waterfall

A beautiful, crystal time of truth and meaning

I knew my dream job, I heard it call

To make sure mothers could see their Mahmouds get tall

He was my understanding

He is my purpose

I would even say,

                my salvation