PHOTO PROMPT -© Vijaya Sundaram
The door bursts open, shuddering dust and flakes of paint from the shack walls. It’s Pops, face grey as his grubby shirt, mouth open, hand trembling at his side.
‘They’re here,’ he says.
Momma pushes past him, me and Jimmy scrabbling in her wake. Outside, the other displaced families are all there, some gawping dumbly at the night sky, some already throwing what little stuff they had left in bags. An old lady sits in the dirt rocking, crying like a baby.
Above our heads, the night fizzes, glitters, alight – the most beautiful thing.
Momma grabs my hand.