I hadn’t seen Jack, Nicholas, or their family
since they left the emergency housing camp in Noisy-le-Grand
five years ago.
Even though I pounded on the wooden panel,
rattled the doorknob, called out my name,
no one answered.
Still, the woman next door confirmed,
“Yes, they’re home. Knock louder; they’re inside.”
Even the dog did not bark.
When I finally risked pushing the door open,
there stood young Jack at the back of the kitchen, near the stairs,
looking ready to keep the toughest intruders out of the upstairs rooms.
I didn’t dare approach him,
but stayed rooted to the spot with surprise.
In vain, I repeated my name.
He echoed it back to his mother,
hidden in the bedroom, unwilling to move.
Then finally she recognized my voice,
and dared to come downstairs toward us.
(…)
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