We understood each other, you and I.
Our mothers watched us play as children. I was the shy, plain girl and you were the lisping curly-headed boy all through our childhood. Although we were friends, our mothers weren't. My family was wary and your was the central of the village. I can still remember the anger in my fathers eyes as he shouted at your family. You looked back with a placid expression. If only I had seen the hunger in your eyes. My father died that night but you kept me strong. My mother told me tales of my father. That very same week our village was set alight and burnt to the ground. We came here by ship, you and I. Now my mother never speaks of the past at all. But I can still remember the rocking of the boat as I sat on my others knee while everyone around us mourned over lost, loved ones. You danced around cheering people up. But there was still the person in your eyes I did not know. Like you were a stranger. I fell asleep and my mother shook me. She said I spent the whole trip wide-eyed, watching you.