Georgia On My Mind

There, in the shadow of the Caucasus, on the snowy plains that just 14 years ago were pocked with death, Valya watched the rubber ball roll across the sidewalk. A crew of kids still young enough to grab clothes from the children’s bins at the aid drops ran after the ball. One of the boys tripped. He tumbled in the snow, left behind by his comrades.

“Are you okay,” Valya called.

“Fine, thanks.”

“Not hurt?”

“No, not at all.”

“Your forehead is bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

The boy ran off. Valya watched him trot away. The sun hanged in the sky, piercing white light emanating off each ice crystal on the ground. Valya winced, stood up, and walked towards the mountains.

It was a good 15 or 20 kilometers to get to the foothills. Valya hadn’t been to the Caucuses since her father left. She thought maybe this time was different. That this walk would free her. That she would revisit the mountains, revisit her father, swim in the memories of what had once been and what could be. She stopped at the fence at the end of the road. It was razor wire. She reached out, feeling the razor’s edge.

“Careful,” the boy with the bleeding forehead called out.

“Why?”

“Because we need you.”

“You do?”

“Vasha had to go, and we’re down one.”

“Oh.”

“Come on.”