Where the River Runs Home | Bob Floyd

"They're soldiers, aren't they?" he asked.

"American Navy," Elena answered him.

Kaia glanced over at him; a smile flickered across her face before she returned to the work. She understood the curiosity. The arrival of Americans always stirred in the village, good and bad. Some came with churches, some with aid organizations, some with cameras slung around their necks, eager to capture the children in weathered homes. Others came with trucks full of supplies and hands willing to help rebuild.

Most meant well, and many truly helped. But eventually, they all climb back into their vehicles and disappear.

The river still needed walking to. The laundry still piled up. Children still outgrew their shoes and clothes. Roofs still leaked with the rain.

She learned long ago that gratitude and distance could exist together.