When my mother came to America,
Carrying her passport, her comb and brush,
Her lingerie, and dresses hand-sewn
By her brother; Carrying soldier portraits
Of her fiance and brother-in-law,
carrying guilt for leaving her family,
Fear of leaving her country;
Carrying tuberculosis in lungs clogged
By London's smog and Blitzkrieg dust--
She came in style, on Sweden's floating palace,
Gripsholm. The twinkling of the crystal chandeliers
Must have reminded her of nights long past,
Dancing the rhumba at tea houses, sharing a shandy with friends.
Life at sea was unreal, a long tea-dance, interrupted by
The churning of the sea itself. Frail from food rationing, my
Mother almost wasted away from seasickness,
As the ocean carried the boat from side to side, and tossed
The little English war bride who'd carried sand buckets
To put out the fires when London burned. She saw the
Statue of Liberty, but knew she wasn't free. She carried
Her luggage to the Traveler's Aide, turned to ask
For directions, and when she turned back,
Her hand-sewn dresses, her soldier portraits,
Her comb and brush were gone.
She lost the first child she carried.
Her homeland taken, then her possessions, then her dream
Of domestic peace, stolen by the soldier husband who understood
Nothing but battle. She carried on as best she could,
But finally lost herself. When my mother came to America,
All she knew was war, and for the rest of her life—
Every hope, every longing, every dream she carried
In her heart was rationed.
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Diane E. Dees is a psychotherapist and writer in Covington, Louisiana. Her short stories, essays and political commentaries have appeared in many publications. Diane and her husband, Orvin Tobiason, are the webmasters of princesscafe.com, the world's only virtual rock and roll restaurant. Diane has work forthcoming in Quality Women's Fiction, Mindprints, The Raven Chronicles and The Louisiana Review.
You can reach her at dianedees@charter.net
This piece was first published in
INK POT #2 - 2003, a literary journal.
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