In the 65 million who are displaced, there is the story of one. In the thousands who have already lost their lives in attempted crossings this year, there is still the story of one.
One whose mother holds tight the shoes he wore when he was small and who all through the night wailed to any god who would listen. Begging for the months passed to be washed away, for the miles walked to be reversed, for her son to be standing beside her again. She wails still, feeling the weight of her mourning heavy on her - the full weight of mourning a death the world is silent to. Does no one know she lost her son last night? Does no one cry? Does no one remember the way he used to tuck his shoelaces into those little shoes because he was too stubborn, too fast, too eager to run into the world to learn how to tie? She remembers how he clung to her as a child, how he strayed from her as a boy, she remembers how he hugged her tight that last morning before he left - too stubborn, too fast, too hopeful about what the world was holding for him.
In the 65 million, there is still the story of one. One whose life is over before 15, whose feet carried him 3,000 miles towards the promise of a future, whose hands lifted him up and down again into a wall of wooden batons. In the masses, may we remember the one.
You are seen. Your story is heard. Your life is remembered, and my brother, you will be missed.