The night is quiet less the shuffled sound of sandal turned desert rocks and labored breathing.
My hands grow increasingly numb with every step, backpack straps from the heavy pack full of all our worldly possessions restrict the blood flow to my arms, but we must keep going.
From the darkness an innocent voice asks, “What is that father?”
Vapor from our warm breath momentarily glows like a cloud, illuminated by the distant bright lights of the Kabul airport.
Without looking down, nor losing a step I respond, that’s hope my son, that’s hope”.
Kids… dead kids… it never ends