TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Ben Sloan

hills, was car-less. She gazed in the bridge’s direction. She wished something would move along it: a car, a tractor, a wheelbarrow full of who knows what—at the very least, something that would ensure she was not alone with this cabin, but more so, this river. Only moments ago she stood on that bridge looking down at the hill that she now stood on. If only she could get back up there. What was life like on the bridge? Life on the bridge was nice. What did I even think about during that period of my life, my standing- on-the-bridge-life? The closer she made her way to the cabin, the more sure she became that this was the place she was looking for. On the bridge, everything was less certain. If only I could go back… Birke pulled out her packet of cigarettes and flicked at the bottom of it until a lone cigarette stuck out from the rest. She lit the cigarette and drew in the smoke. Instead of inhaling the smoke and blowing it out her mouth, she tried to swallow it down. The smokewent into her lungs and remained there for a moment. She contracted her ribs and her stomach. When she felt her throat fill with air, she tried to suffocate the air and push it back down into her lungs. Her mouth shut stiff. She swallowed. Unsuccessful: small remnants of smoke curled up out of her nose. A light breeze pushed the thin smoke against her eyes. Her eyes burned. She liked the burn. She wanted more burn. She imagined small charcoal particles clinging to the inner membrane of her lungs, begging to be released from captivity only to have that hope destroyed by another round of newcomers, immigrants or maybe just lost family members, who were being forced into that already populated home. 216