One day, my parents
took a peek
inside a dusty library.
Within it, they found
sagging shelves,
thick, heavy tomes,
interspersed with thinner tales,
and just one tiny window
an outlined square of light
against a dark wall.
Some books had yellow pages,
others were
fresher,
some were dog-eared,
thumbprints on covers,
others were barely touched
and never loved.
But they all told a similar story of
a voyage:
to a new country,
new language,
new clothing,
new food,
new culture,
new life,
and a new flag—
same red
white
blue
that my parents knew,
but now with stars and
stripes.
Some books spoke of
success,
others bemoaned failure,
and yet my parents dared to
bring their own story,
bound in deer leather
with clean quartz
pages.
My parents tucked that book
in between two others,
unknown authors,
like so many,
inside that dusty library.