By Yazmin Navarro
There was always an ache.
A pain that filled the inside of my belly.
A pain that engulfed me.
Of missing something.
Of missing someone.
Of missing my mother.
It was the times.
It was the need.
It was seeing the hunger in her children’s eyes.
It was the fear of watching her children die.
She pried my hand from hers.
She looked away.
She feared my wounded face.
She didn’t look back.
She feared my face more than she feared the abyss.
She didn’t know how.
She didn’t know when.
She didn’t know where.
But she knew the answers lay ahead.
In a foreign land.
With a foreign tongue.
She could feed her children from there.
She could sustain her children from there.
She lost her children.
And I lost my mother.
Fuck you fence.
Jump.
No one wins.
Yazmin Navarro holds a BA in English and a Masters in Public Administration. She was born in Northern Mexico and immigrated to the United States as a 7-year-old. In her spare time, she writes about growing up as an undocumented immigrant—the hardships faced as a child brought to a country she didn’t know and her difficult path to authorized status—and she’s currently working on a children’s book. Yazmin has been a Marine Corps spouse for the past twelve years, has a daughter and two dogs, and resides in Southern California.
Photo credit: Jonathan McIntosh via a Creative Commons license.
Beautiful!!