Authors: Katherine Applegate
It falls apart in my hands.
I follow Dave across the noisy snow.
Two times I slip and fall.
Two times I rise, pants wet, knees burning.
Take it slow, buddy, Dave says.
Tears trace my cheeks like tiny knives.
I look away so Dave will not see my shame.
How can I trust a place
where even the ground plays tricks?
Inside, we climb up many stairs.
We walk down a long hall,
passing door after door.
Dave knocks on one of them,
and behind it I hear the
muffled voices of my past.
Much time has come and gone,
but still I know the worn, gray voice
of my mother's sister, Nyatal.
I hear another voice, too,
the sound of a young man,
a strong man.
The door opens
and my old life is waiting on the other side.
I'm hugged and kissed
and there is much welcoming
from my aunt.
She's rounder than I remember,
with a moon face to match,
her black eyes set deep.
My cousin, Ganwar,
shakes my hand.
I have learned about shaking hands.
At the camp they taught us how:
be firm, but do not squeeze too hard!
Still, when Ganwar grasps my hand
we are like two calves in the clouds
pretending we know how to fly.
The man's voice belongs to Ganwar,
and he has my father's height now,
though Ganwar is thin and reedy
where my father
was sturdy with strength.
His eyes are wary and smart,
always taking the measure of a person.
Six long scars line his forehead,
the marks of manhood
I watched Ganwar and my brother receive
in our village ceremony.
How jealous I had been that day,
too young for such an honor.
I try hard not to look at
another scar,
the place where Ganwar's left hand
should be,
round and bare and waiting
like an ugly question
no one can answer.
The night Ganwar lost his hand
was the night I lost
my father and brother,
the night of men in the sky with guns,
the night the earth opened up like a black pit
and swallowed my old life whole.
My aunt holds my face in her hands
and I see that she's crying.
I know her to be a woman of many sorrows,
carved down to a sharp stone
by her luckless life.
She isn't like my mother,
whose laughter is
like bubbling water from a deep spring.
I look into her eyes
and then my tears come hard and fast,
not for her, not for my cousin,
not even for myself,
but because when I look there,
I see my mother's eyes
looking back at me.
I'll let you get settled, Dave says,
but first I'll give you some lessons.
Your aunt and your cousin know these things,
but you'll need to know them, too.
Number one, he says,
always lock your door.
Ganwar, show Kek what a key looks like.
In my old home,
my real home,
my father kept us safe.
We had no need for locks.
Number two, he says,
this is a light switch.
He pushes a tiny stick on the wall
and the room turns to night,
then blinks awake.
In my old home,
my real home,
the sun gave us light,
and the stars
watched us sleep.
This thermostat, Dave says,
helps keep you warm.
He pretends to shiver
to paint a picture for his words.
In my old home,
my real home,
we were a family,
and our laughter kept us warm.
We didn't need a magic switch
on a wall.
I nod to say yes,
I understand,
but I wonder if I will ever understand,
even if Dave stands here,
pointing and talking
forever.
I'll be going now, Kek, Dave says,
but I'll see you tomorrow.
I smile to show my thanking.
Remember that this'll take time, he says.
It isn't easy to make such a big change.
Things are very different here.
In the camp, I say,
they called America
heaven on earth.
They say many things in the camps, Ganwar says.
You'll see how wrong they were.
Dave shakes his finger at Ganwar.
You behaving lately, buddy?
he asks with a smile.
My aunt answers
when Ganwar doesn't:
He had another fight last week.
Ganwar looks at the ceiling.
At least I won.
I'll talk to your counselor at school, Dave says.
I wonder from his sound if he has said
these words before.
Ganwar and I will go to school together?
I ask with hope.
No, Dave says.
Ganwar is in eleventh grade,
and you will be in fifth.
He pats my back.
Kek, if you need anything,
have your aunt get in touch with me.
I'm always here to help.
I will be OK, I say,
using my best English words.
Soon I will make snowballs.
I make a big grin
so that my new friend Dave
will not worry.
I wonder if he can tell
it is a pretending smile.
Kek, my aunt says,
he's a good boy.
He will try hard
to make his new life work.
I can hear her struggle to
find the English words,
just like I do.
My aunt glances at Ganwar.
You'll see, Dave.
Kek finds sun
when the sky is dark.
Ah, says Dave,
an optimist.
I look away.
I cannot find any sun today, I think.
Dave shakes my hand,
and when the door closes behind him
I'm surprised that I feel afraid,
a little bit.
Dave isn't like my father,
not at all.
But it's been good
to have someone watching over me,
even for just a while.
It's been a long time
since I've known that feeling,
like a soft blanket
on a night when the wind howls.
He had many cattle,
my father,
and the respect of our village,
but it was his voice that made him
a rich man among men.
His voice was deep,
like a storm coming,
but gentle,
like the rain ending.
My people are herders.
We move with the seasons,
with the wet and the dry,
so that the cattle
may be strong and well fed.
We cannot carry much with us,
and so our stories don't
make their homes
in heavy books.
We hold our stories
in our songs.
No one knew more songs
than my father,
and no one sang them
with a voice as clear and sure.
He knew songs of the stars
and the wind,
of love and betrayal,
of war and regret.
Always the villagers would beg,
just one more song, Dak!
Our ears long for one more story!
At night, before we went to sleep,
my father would make new songs
for my brother Lual and me.
He sang my favorite
the night he was killed:
The crocodile snaps;
Still Kek swims.
The feet bleed;
Still Kek dances.
The calf vanishes;
Still Kek searches.
The sandstorm blinds;
Still Kek laughs.
My stubborn Kek,
my willful son,
if you tell me
you can dance with the wind,
if you tell me
you can sleep with the lion,
if you tell me
you can harvest the stars,
how can I doubt you,
my son?
We must feed you.
My aunt speaks in my language,
the right way,
with the notes where they belong.
Ganwar will show you the other rooms.
There are more? I ask.
How can that be?
You have a kingdom here!
A TV machine, a sitting place,
a cooking fire!
The smile on Ganwar's face
is a surprise.
Suddenly I remember him
playing with my brother,
wild boys chasing each other like
lion and prey,
searching out mischief
in every corner of our village.
Ganwar leads me to a little room.
For bathing, he instructs.
But watch out.
The water comes hot and fast.
I point to the magic water pot
like the one on the flying boat.
You don't go outside?
He laughs. It would turn to yellow ice.
I laugh, too.
Ganwar stares at me.
Always his eyes seem to know
more than I will ever know.
You laugh like your brother, he says.
He is quiet. His grin is gone.
Too bad I do not look like him, I say,
and I am glad to see Ganwar's smile return.
It means we will not talk of
why I am here
and Lual is not.
Too bad for sure,
Ganwar agrees.
I have a silly face, to tell the truth of it.
I have the eyelashes of a girl,
as Lual and Ganwar liked to remind me.
My ears look like they want
to fly me away,
and my smile takes up most of my face.
My brother was the handsome one.
Everywhere girls watched him
with shy, smiling eyes.
Another room is waiting.
On the floor
lie blankets and pillows
like gentle dunes.
I run my hands over covers
softer than a new calf's coat.
Just one mattress so far,
says Ganwar,
and his voice tells me this is not a good thing.
Dave says maybe he can find more soon.
You and I will sleep in the other room.
We'll take turns on the sofa.
So-fa? I repeat.
It's a long chair
you can sleep on, Ganwar explains.
You don't need to share, I say.
I'll try not to get in the way.
You know you are welcome here, Ganwar says,
but I cannot tell if he means his words.
It's a strange pain
to be with those you belong to
and feel you don't belong.
Carefully I take a step
onto the blanket cloud.
I stumble, then stand,
then jump and jump
and fall
and jump some more.
Ganwar shakes his head.
You haven't changed,
my cousin, he says.
You're still a crazy little boy.
I stop my jumping.
I'm not a little boy, I think.
Not anymore.
But I keep the words in my heart.
My brother Lual was Ganwar's age,
and just as tall.
Maybe that's why he tried
always to tell me what to do.
Have you lost your ears,
my stubborn brother? he would say.
You must listen to our father and mother.
Soon you'll be a man,
not a silly boy.
I would sigh,
I would laugh,
and once I even slipped
two snakes onto his sleeping mat
while he lay snoring.
The whole village awoke to his screams.
I know it was wrong to do,
but they were harmless snakes,
and when I saw Lual's face
I laughed until
my eyes rained.
Every day Lual scolded,
and every day I thought,
Lual, please just be my brother.
I don't need two fathers!
I didn't know that too soon
I would not have any.
Still, though he could peck at me
like a sharp-beaked bird,
Lual knew well how to make
his little brother laugh.
He would have known a soft bed
was made for jumping.
He would have growled at me
for misbehaving,
but then,
when no one was looking,
he would have jumped just as high.
I would give all the beds
in all the great world
to feel the sharp thorn
of Lual's scolding once again.
My aunt makes food on the cooking fire.
We eat simply,
with tastes and smells of my home,
and we talk with the words and sounds I know
sweet in my mouth.
But the more home returns to me,
the more I remember all I've lost.
I feel the holes where
my mother,
my father,
my brother
should be,
my uncle, my aunt's husband,
and their other children, tooâ
two girls, younger than Ganwar.
Sometimes, it seems to me,
a hole can be
as real and solid
as a boulder or a tree.
Outside snowflakes tap at the window
like stubborn mosquitoes.
I try out the wordâ
snow
â
then shiver and shake
just like Dave.
My aunt lets a smile go free.
I have to go to work now, she says.
What do you mean, work? I want to know.
Mama helps at a house for old people, Ganwar explains.