Twelve days at the shelter already. Curled up in the metal-framed beds, wrapped in rough blankets, we’re munching on uncertainty. Last night, in front of the shack, Father was attacked by a pair of locals. They yelled. I wish I could learn their language quickly. Their kids look at me with blurry eyes.
Perhaps it’d be different if they knew that Father, Mother, Sister and I spent our first day here in the park. The benches were hard, so different from the bed back home. We’d had to leave quickly. All I managed was to grab an album with photos and a book of fairy-tales.
I don’t tend to cry. Not least if the group in front of the shack is joined by a young man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. There’s so much I want to tell him. Especially when he throws a stone at us just like that. Mother says I should stay away from him, but those eyes…
If I could single out his gaze just for a moment, I’m sure our eyes would open.
I need to learn the language soon.