For a while there I worked as a child advocate in seattle. I met the dearest children. I dedicate this poem to them


With no disabling fears

It walks vulnerable

Cries at loud with no guilt

For when simplicity and spontaneous meet

the child machine says it’s free

It can stretch out his own skin

laugh long intervals without end

Passionate beyond self

In a crayon-line world, dreams are its life fuel

A resilient being this is

The children’s mothers had to leave their country, their home and everything in between in order to escape violence.
1, 2, 3 times over again.

I often got asked by the children if my father beat my mother
or if Aaron loved me or if I knew how to do cartwheels–they couldn’t be too serious, right?

Sometimes the children would say they hated their father, most times they said they missed him, other times they said their father did things like bake cookies with them. I think we all knew the last wasn’t true but I how could I ever contradict them.

One of the mothers told me that she couldn’t have taken her child across the border like many other mothers do.
When she was on the roof of the train that was taking her from Guatemala to Mexico she saw a mother and her child hop on. The train was already moving when the mother and her toddler child in her arms started climbing the metal ladder, that’s when she accidentally let go of her son as he slipped off her hands and she could not catch him in time.
every time I think of this story I want to cry and ask myself why? why!

BUT most times the children made me laugh and the moms made me eat tamales and we laughed and then we cried a little.