People had been labelling him all his life. What a little cutie! He’s such a chatterbox. Don’t be a tattletale!
He revelled on a cloud of names. They rolled off his shoulders like that football he kicked around.
One day his home shattered and his neighbourhood scattered and a group of eyes gave him another name. A name that crawled under his skin.
Huddled on some greyed station floor, he asked, “Mamma, what’s refugee?”