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We exit
The small aircraft
That contains
20 people exactly
I step foot into my new home
I can feel the fresh air
Cover my dry, tan skin
The people look at me
With the white mask over my nose and mouth
They said that If I don't put the mask on,
I could die
Not being able to breath
The fresh air
I waved at a kid,
Looking around my age
He waved back
I felt happy again
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad
But I still miss Afghanistan
All the memories
Zeena and I shared
Were left
Like father left us
The dust from the dirt roads
Blinding us
I look up at mother, uncle
And Sister Nahla
At least they are here
At least they are safe
We all hold hands
Not letting anything
Or anyone
Break our strong chain
That we hold together
We grab the bags from the spinning conveyer
Grabbing the strap
A boy comes up and grabs my hand
The one I waved to earlier
Hi there!
He shouts with a welcoming smile
Hello
I respond with a filtered voice
Created from the white mask
We talk for what seems like hours
His name is Jack,
Jack Anderson
He lives here,
In Denver, Colorado
Where we are living now
He is going to California
Where all the movie stars and celebrities are,
My first friend,
He says he lives in Denver
Downtown
I don't know what that means
But it seems cool
Mother grabs my hand
To take me to our new home
BYE
I shout into the distance
Pretending my imaginary friend
Can hear me...
YOU ARE READING
The Journey Home
PoetryIn this strikingly touching poem journal, follow the journey of a young afghan refugee, Ajani. As time passes in Kabul, Afghanistan, the capital and the city which she was born and raised in, she struggles to find serenity for her and her family. Th...
