Dear refugee child,
There is an American flag flying on a tall metal pole by the doors into the brown building. The building itself is made of bricks, concrete, and other hard materials. The only openings into the building are uniformed rectangles standing in glass. Some of them have paper flowers in different colours taped to them, basking in the warmth of the early morning sun.
I knew this day was coming: the adults have been whispering about what happens at the end of summer. A child of only two seasons, the dry heat and the wet monsoons of Thailand, I am limited in my understanding of such changes. My mother counts on her fingers the things we’ll need soon: jackets, boots, scarves, hats, and then she says to our father, “The children will need books, pencils, backpacks, and other things to go to school.”
My only taste of school was bitter. In the refugee camp, I couldn’t…
