The refugee camp

The little girl asked her mother, “ma what do you remember about home?”
Mother got a glazed look in her eyes; stared into the horizon, out of their tent in the refugee camp. Images of the sunkissed rooms of her husband’s house; the huge bookshelf containing tattered books; the rolling hills which gave her shelter from her mother’s wrath; the smell of incense; the warm feeling down her neck on seeing her neighbour smile– all flashed past her within a few heartbeats. She had relived a lifetime within a few seconds. But when she saw her daughter’s eager young eyes, she said, “lala home is where you are. I don’t need to remember anything. I am home.” No joy was greater than seeing her daughter smile.


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