Antonia Patricia Herrera Veas.

Lampa, Chile

Yellow lilies.

My brother tells me he wants to fly: all kinds of futuristic cities, robots, flying cars, cross my mind as I lay on my soft, cozy bed.

Then I look around and find myself surrounded by buildings full of advertisements in characters I do not understand. Over our heads, a gray sky, dense clouds. Masks only let us see our irritated, tired eyes.

I look around once again: there is a plane, gray as the sky. The colonel disembarks, and dozens of boys dressed like him run into a school’s remains. I am scared. The soil we are lying on is dirty and hurts. It has been hours.

But soon, a group of people gets off one plane. Some have beautiful almond-shaped eyes, hair the color of gold or fire. My mom looks peaceful while we get on board.

When we land, I see colorful fields, schools, and kids playing. The turquoise sky fills my lungs with freedom for the first time; the smell of lilies perfumes my heart as it perfumes my home now. I smell freedom in every book I read, but there is a smell I do not know yet: What scent will you give the world?