Day 12-C





[N.B: I’m not proud of this piece at all. I wish I had more time or could just omit it from the journal/blog all together, but in the spirit of honesty, here you are. As for some context, the nomads from the first day kept a portrait of a 7-year-old girl in their pavilion, and we weren’t sure who she was and why they had her portrait there. In this story, I assume that it was their daughter. It’s written from the point of view of the man. Please don’t judge me. I know it’s bad.]


They didn’t have much, but they had those three pictures – one of a beautiful young porcelain-skinned woman with her hair tied back in a beautiful sequined scarf that glimmered when she looked off through the window; one of a wedding, with a small married couple surrounded by happy people celebrating love and life with flowers and guitars and brothers so excited that they may jump out of the frame at any moment; and one of a family, all awkwardly posed and rigidly holding each other as they vainly tried to produce for a camera something they all knew and felt every day. They probably didn’t have very many physical memories besides those – maybe a baby blanket or a wooden spoon or something else that still had functional value. I am the same way, too. My wife and I are semi-nomadic, as they like to call us in western textbooks nowadays, and the moment the land can no longer support us, our goats, our chickens, and our dog, we put everything we need in the back of a pick-up truck and seek out our next temporary home. We can’t afford to keep non-essential trinkets and bric-a-brac on us, for not only do we lack money, but we also lack space and need. I’m sure that’s how that Greek-speaking family felt when they were packing up and moving out. They weren’t sure where they were going or for how long or why – just that they needed to pack light. 

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