She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped off the boat. She had her papers tidy, and a brogue to boot. But no two stories are the same. Some have a shirt, some just sandy socks. All of them have a name. Footprints for milk and honey, tear-streaked cheeks, bellies hungry. She ordered chips at the deli, her first meal on this soil. A man handed her crisps, and she always recalled the trouble of her confusion. Fried potatoes weren't supposed to be crunchy. Little feet hollering for momma. Small cold eyes full of fright. Crinkly silver blankets rustling strangers in the night. Chastised and caged needing a better way just to feel safe. No two stories are the same. We really do have enough to share. We have dumpsters of food, plastic packaging, fruits for picking, Tupperware. We have water, freshly bottled. We have sheets, freshly laundered by some lady named Maria, or Lucy, or Clare. But we don't care until every other one born here gets the choice of throwing their own dinner away. To this, I say... She had a basket of bits and things when she stepped off the boat. She had her papers tidy, and a brogue to boot. But no two stories are the same. Some have a shirt, some just sandy socks. All of them have a name.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |