Immigrant
by C.S. Scotkin
Immigrant stares at the bed
strewn with belongings.
She cannot take it all, the ship
is too small for so many leaving.
Small trunk on a chair, reliquery
for her life. She despairs, clutches
much loved memories as though
they were her children, puts them aside.
" I will wear two sets of clothes, although
it is too warm." She thinks as she wraps a
Sunday dress in whispering tissue paper,
placed lovingly in the bottom.
Next, a christmas star, shielded
with cotton batting. Doesn't forget
the envelope of flower seeds dried
by her sister. Her garden in the new world.
Her trunk is light.
She no longer fears
the trip of no return.
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