Found Photos

he was 19, that curly haired boy on the right.
I recognize him as my son, the one I walked away from,
my heart in my throat on a street somewhere in Switzerland.
he had just finished high school.
maybe I gave him a few Swiss francs on parting,
I'd paid for a few French lessons so he
could get a job there.
he had to grow up a bit.
I did, too, then.
A few months later, he was still 19 and he wasn't in Switzerland
where trains ran on time.
there were no trains here,
only shimmering sand dunes, drunken soldiers
sporting machine guns like rich women
do designer purses.
my son is too young for that world
entrenched in civil war with border stations
he may never survive crossing.
my son, who is 29, survived that trip,
I found the photos and studied them and
am glad I did not bother to know.
he will see them again on Christmas,
I will see something in his eyes.