Once upon a time I loved a man.
His skin was a glorious shade of brown.
He was kind and compassionate and funny as hell.
He sang Buffalo Soldier as he shuffled around the room.
He had demons that had followed him from a war torn land.
He grew up just an ordinary boy, school and family and friends.
Escaping and surviving after witnessing atrocities against his people.
People he loved.
12 years old and alone, he traveled across a continent.
Luck saw him reunited with his mother who thought he was dead.
Her son, a ghost who had risen from the desert, delivered to her in a refugee camp.
God only knows what he had been through.
His hair was big, and dusty from his travels.
But he had survived.
He’d drank camels milk that was stolen from homes along the way.
A band of men, caring for each other, seeking refuge.
A sister who had been sent to learn, to get an education fought for her family to be here.
She gave them hope and got them to Australia.
Safe now but always haunted by a past of violence.
I would comfort him when the nightmares would come.
It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do.
I was out of my depth.
Working while educating himself he came across ignorance.
I heard the stories of the hate, “Can they send me a White driver”.
It didn’t work, we were different and our histories made our present a difficult path to navigate.
I loved him. He loved me. It was fun, it was amazing, it was an education, it was hard.
It was love.
It changed me.
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