As I rounded the block, I ran into some kids at the neighborhood park.
¿Quieres que te ayudamos con los perros?
¿De donde eres?
Missouri, y ustedes?
I didn't think you were from here! I could tell because of your hair. We're from Denver. Our mom got deported. Our dad still lives in Colorado. He sends us money. We miss him.
All of that in one breath.
From a boy who is probably no older than my son. Maybe 9 or 10? I was overcome with emotions. I thanked the boys for their help and choked back tears as I walked back to the house with Meeko in my arms.
And here I am, feeling more hopeless than ever. Immigration reform? I put it on the back burner mentally. I've given up on it because my heart can't handle the what ifs. And then I happen upon things like this. Situations like this. People like this. Little boys.
That little boy didn't know anything about immigration law. Or breaking laws. Or jumping fences. Or political parties. Or amnesty.
He was just a little boy who misses his dad and doesn't understand why he has to live in Juárez.