The Small-Girl

I'm losing my ability to make light of ending. Death here is closer, like the sun, and just as indiscriminate and unforgiving. A girl with a face youthful and round grows a belly to match. I watched her expand from my safe distance. Last week I went to see her and found her belly sunken, and her eyes empty. They call you a small girl here until you've had your first baby. I wonder if you're still a small girl if your baby dies. I've never seen eyes grow so old so fast.
There are a thousand ways this place could kill. I won't let it. I promised my mom I'd come home. Being adventurous strikes me as the best way to survive. I'll climb trees, race down bush paths on bicycles and sit in the front of trotros. Make it a staring contest; I won't blink first, and my lorry always makes it home safely. Please come back, the letter from my nephew says. I will.
I want to relearn small children without heavy burdens. Sometimes I tire of babies with leathered feet and ancient eyes. Sometimes I think my soul is growing old. Sometimes I miss home.

Sometimes nothing feels more welcoming than riding the red dirt sand road home. Sometimes the sight of my village growing out of the bush is a symphony. Sometimes the only hard thing is being away from loved ones. Sometimes the hardest thing is falling desperately in love with sweat on my chest, dirt under my nails living know that one day, not even so far from now, I'll put down the mild mannered infant that sits in my arms like home and walk, knowingly, back down that red road out of this village forever.