Through the the journey,

Jungles of Laos,

Leeches clung to their skin,

from the Jungle at night.

It is cold.

War ravaged the land around.

Salt and rice are all to eat.

The Mekong River flows.

Between war-torn Laos and neutral Thailand,

danger and safety.

Their feet bleeds, uncertainty thrives.

Father and men of the family work at night.

Bamboo are plenty, effort too.

When all are ready as light cracks, child clings tight.

“Hang on,” mother says, reassuringly.

The raft bobs, the water relentless.

The great river Mekong,

Two football fields long.

To a child’s eyes, amazing sight.

Seconds later, bullets fly from their shore.

Screams, panic, chaos.

Bullets pass near the child’s ears.

She clings to her mother’s hand.

Glimpses, she sees red painting the water,

Dead bodies of men, women, children.

Others are fleeing too.

They are not alone.

Her little brother, no more than seven,

clings on the raft.

Others swim as best they can,

Cling to whatever floats toward safety to Thailand.

Her cousin jumps off, tries to swim.

A bullet pierces his head.

Another relative, holding a baby, sinks dead swimming, and —

SPLASH!

The raft sails sideways, and the child, shocked.

Her brother is gone.

She turns and sees Mother no more.

The screams and struggle is too much.

The roars of bullets and bombs whizz,

All of a sudden, a messy blur.

Yet the child holds on, onward to Thailand

When they have come onto the other shore,

The child finds few relatives, including Father.

Father and they and so many others,

dared not look back.

The Communists have already won the war.

For days, they hike along the trail,

to a refugee camp.

In there, safety from danger.

All that time, the child did not cry.

But at the gate, a tear comes down her cheeks.

“Kuv niam,” she says, “Mother.”

But only the new reality greets her:

A Hmong refugee.