I am what is left after the war that orphaned a generation. 
And what is left is knowing that what remains is worth 
Carrying. The way the earth carried our tired bodies.  
How the moon kept still while we crossed jungles, 
Leaves whispered prayers and sunlight kept us 
Warm. The way Lok-Yeay carried me on her back, 
The back that carried the land and fog, the hungry mouths 
Of children and grandchildren, the withered body of her  
Husband, the grime of a widow who raised seven children 
All on her own. The way rivers carried our sorrows.  
And how my aunts carried the deaths of their youths 
Cradled to their chests like broken dolls.  
How we all carried memories of my mother.  
How my father carried himself after we had left.  
At night in the refugee camp my uncles cradled 
Hope that was as real as the belief that  
No matter what came before, a life was still a life.  
Then they turned to their corners of dirt and wept.

~

Feature image of Khmer refugee settlement at the Thai / Cambodia border (photo by AFP)