Lines

Left. Right. Left. Right. 

The man in black stood in front of the towering gate; sharp barbed wire loosely draped over the chain link wall like a a veil over my bride at our wedding. Just last week we were celebrating, laughing, making love. That doesn't matter to the man in black, nor does it matter to us now. All that matters now is his choice.

Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.

He separates families and lovers like wheat from chaff. With a quick glance he can measure strength and character faster than most could measure in a lifetime; he has been trained for such cold judgment since he was a youth. I clutch her hand as we move closer to the front of the line, the words of my father-in-law echo in my mind: You are not a lawyer: you are a factory worker, a machinist. You work in factories or you die. 

A woman screams as the guard separates her from young daughter. Soldiers use their machine guns to bully the hysterical woman to the left; a man grabs the crying child by her shoulder and roughly shoves her in the line on the right.

Right. Right. Left. Left.

The man's sharp blue eyes analyze me. He sneers and with a single motion decides my life sentence with his outstretched hand.

Left.

I turn and look back to my wife. Her small, slender frame cowers in front of the burly soldier.

Right.