travel light
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* I’m honored to say that this piece was used for a “War Poetry” class by Ann Marie Thornton at Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey. Many thanks to her and the students for their questions and photos of them reading and discussing it. *
~
Her small angelic face ...
once a place where smiles
bloomed like butterflies on marigolds,
is streaked with the furrows that
countless tears have etched into the
layers of dust and dirt and explosive
residue that now paints her skin,
like the branches and courses the
mighty Nile has carved into the ages.
Her sweet little-girl voice, that in
better times was the conduit of
joyous laughter born straight from
her belly, is now hoarse and scratchy
from the screams and cries that
follow every explosion and rattle of
gunfire, and every vision of horror
that reality serves up each day
instead of food. But no matter -
she has little need to speak anymore.
Those amazingly blue eyes - as azure
as any summer sky, and once
sparkling like sun-pixies dancing on
the wave-tops of the Mediterranean -
now stare ahead with vacant darkness,
a shadow that only hopelessness and
apathy can cast, and that no sunlight
will ever again visit. She is wearing
her favorite dress, a pink and white
seersucker pinafore, with little blue
piping on the straps and hem and bib,
with a sharp-creased white blouse
underneath, though it has been a long
time since it LOOKED white. One of
the straps is almost worn through,
and the hem is ragged, with little tears
here-and-there. Her shoes were also
once her favorites, but the toes are
now worn through, and the saddle-shoe
tones of white and tan are gone,
covered with dried mud and scrapes.
The beautiful pink polka-dot ribbon
she had in her hair is now wrapped
around her left leg, above a wound
that would not stop bleeding ... she
has smaller wounds on her legs and
arms, and one on her head that is
very bothersome, as it is filled with
maggots ... she hates the feeling of
them moving in her flesh, but she
was told that it was important to
NOT remove them until she reaches
Damascus and finds medical help ...
you see, they only eat dead tissue,
and will keep the wound clean. That
wound is almost as big as the one
on her leg, both of which she got
from the IED that hit her family's car,
the explosion that killed the rest of
her loved ones as they escaped on
the road from Raqqa. That seems so
long ago to her now - years ago in
her mind - and she has been walking
ever since. Sometimes people are
kind to her and give her food, or
watch out for her for a while, but it
never lasts long, and it's hard to
know who to trust, as some of the
adults she has met have tried to do
things to her that are very wrong,
but she has always been able to
run away ... so far. She prays
every day for someone to help her,
maybe someone she knows from
her town will see her and offer,
but each new day just brings more
strangers and more hunger and
more dust and dirt. She still carries
her favorite teddy bear, Amia ... it
may seem a silly thing to others,
but she uses it at night for a pillow,
(even though the stuffing is flat and
the covering is worn), and it is also
stained with her mother's blood,
and that is all she'll ever have of
her family, and it is precious to her.
Other than a package of bubble
gum in her pocket, and some dog
biscuits that she nibbles on at
night, hidden in her underwear,
(others will steal them if they know
she has them), Amia is all she has
in the world. Well, she has memories,
but even her memories have been
stained and broken and drifting away
with the dust and hunger and horror ...
she strains now to remember the
faces and voices of her family,
especially her mother's voice singing
lullabies to her at night, (she sings
them to Amia now), but even those
priceless memories are being
devoured by hopelessness, and
like her small Hello Kitty suitcase,
and her hoodie, and her wallet of
photos, and the package of food
she left with, it has all been taken
by those who saw her as opportunity,
not one needing help. But war does
that to people, she's told, war
changes people. So, for now she
keeps walking and praying, and
she will TRY to hope that she
reaches Damascus, (though hope
holds little comfort), and she will
remember what the ugly man who
took her food and suitcase and hoodie
and photos said, laughing, the brutal,
angry phrase that pushes her on,
"Gotta travel light, little girl ... travel light!!”
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2025
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