False Dreams,

Fingering the yellow worn picture that I had fondled so many times in the past. The creases as evident as the wrinkles on my still soft hands. The paper as fragile as I had become. Swallowing the lump in my throat I unfolded the parchment with great care.

Russia. I had always seen the beauty in the pictures, in the movies, but now, it was my chance to be part of that beauty. That perfection. The softened voice of the airhostess came over the speaker. I wriggled restlessly in my chair, eagerly waiting for the red seatbelt sign to disappear.
The light faded and it seemed like I was the first to bound out of my chair grabbing at my luggage. Running towards the exit as a toddler would to an ice cream stall.

The busy, yet calm atmosphere of the airport was sliced when the furious yelling could be heard from the cargo conveyer belt. The two metal detector guards that I had passed only minutes ago with smiles on their cheerful faces, were now holding a small girl, no older then eight years old, by the scruff of her tattered yellow shirt.
My eyes widened as I realised the lack of humanity. The girl obviously had no home, had gone to sleep underneath the conveyer belt. I swallowed nervously before rushing over towards the girl, leaving my luggage on the still moving belt.

I had no idea what I was doing. The security guards expressions changed from aggression to shock as I came into view. The words seemed to skip their journey to my mind and flow from my mouth. “She’s mine”. Instantly they loosened their hold and the girl dropped to the ground.

I grasped the tiny girl; afraid they would change their minds. Clutching my luggage in one hand and the girl in the other. I continued strolling towards the taxi’s. Reaching out and grasping the taxi door, the driver looked at me before shooting a glare towards the girl. In the safety of the taxi I realised how pitiful the small critter was. Her hair an oily black, her eyes a vibrant blue even through the dirt. I couldn’t leave her to die and fight alone. There was no option other then taking her with me.

I had decided to take the girl with me, but first she needed a name. Gently I smiled at her, before asking in what little Russian I knew if she liked the name Mia. The name I had previously reserved for my own children. She nodded furiously as she snuggled closer for warmth. Mia needed clothing. Never before had I gotten the chance to shop for a small child. Buying clothes was a long, but enjoyable task. Her smile made my heart jump as she admired her new little buckled red shoes.

Our lives improved on both sides. I truly loved Mia as if she was my own child. She needed me, and now, I needed her. Two weeks later, we both awoke to brutal knocking. I trembled edging towards the door, opening it a fraction before it was kicked open and my Mia was snatched from my arms.

I wartch in fear as the men claiming to be her uncles demanded she stay in Russia, away from me. My heart sank as I realised they didn’t want her, they just didn’t want me to have her. We both cried out, grabbing at each other. I yelled in desperation, promising to return when she was 18, on her birthday.

I walked back towards the airport, my visa close to expiring. Donating all of my luggage except Mia’s shoebox and the small picture she had drew. Mia and I, hand in hand, in front of the statue of liberty, the symbol of freedom.

True to my word, ten years later, I was back. Only then to search, to wander the streets for month’s in search of Mia. The same crowded roads that I had so many years ago. I never did find my little Mia. That day I lost all the old youthful delusions I had grown to believe. All faith in the system, all faith in mankind and all faith in myself.

As footsteps grew near, I folded my most prized possession. Placing the single picture in the old shoebox. Sometimes I wondered how normal it was to treasure a single picture and an old shoebox like I did. My thoughts were disrupted when the soft knocking on the door echoed through my mind. The young nurse stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. My face softened as I saw the same youthful expression on the young black nurse that my Mia used to wear. Today would be the 40th anniversary of going back to Russia to search for my little girl and bring her home to freedom, to America. But instead, I lay here, as the world fades to black as I sleep another day.