Lisa Weber

I look at my son —
think how lost I would be
without him in my world
and remember the time he hid
in an overgrown bush in the backyard.
I called his name over and over,
my voice rising with the panic
that wrapped around my heart,
threatening to suffocate me
until finally he emerged
from his perfect hiding spot.
He laughed as I picked him up
and covered him in kisses,
too relieved to scold him.

I remember when he
sought refuge in my arms
after having a nightmare,
his face wet with tears
and me sleepily assuring him
it was just a dream
and there were no monsters
that would tear us away
from each other.

I look at my son
and think about all the children
taken from their parents.
All the children, lost and alone,
surrounded by strangers
who don't wipe away their tears
and promise everything will be okay.
Children locked in cages
as if they were monsters
simply because their parents
would do anything
to look them in the eyes and say
"the world is beautiful
and full of possibilities."

I look at my son
and my heart breaks
knowing there are children
just like him,
searching for parents
they can't find,
reaching for reassuring arms
that aren't there,
unable to wake from a nightmare
that never ends —
refugees without refuge.

On ‘The Youngest Refugees’

When I read the news that parents of over 500 children separated at the border could not be found, I was heartbroken and angry. I cried for these children who may never see their parents again. I thought of my own son, the pain I would feel if he were taken from me. I thought about my great-grandparents who emigrated from Mexico in search of better lives for their own children, and wondered how my government could act so cruelly. How can young children be locked in cages and treated with such indifference? I can only hope that the stories of the youngest refugees are not forgotten.

The photograph accompanying this poem is courtesy of © Gina Clyne (@ginaclyne) for @ambosproject.