Thursday, March 11, 2021

trevor’s dictionary of lost words

The old abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the oak church door and let it fall back onto it’s tarnished plate. 

He did this again and again until a nun cracked open the door to the night.


The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but never had she seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces and the bodies at the church door that night.


Their eyes were alight with beauty, the beauty of being.


Their bodies were heavy with suffering. 


They were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of a thousand miles of migration.


Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness. 


The only homes they found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses that people gave along the way.


They were still and very quiet.


They didn’t move.


They didn’t make a sound.


The old nun wrapped her arms around them.


“I’m here,” she whispered.


“Estoy aquí.”


my

heart

loves home

winter snow

spring mountain flowers

summer salt in the deep, wide sea

fall leaves on the colorful trees are art for my heart


with tears in eyes, my heart pulls on its brown tattered coat, black holey shoes and red wool scarf


my heart is so tired, poor, huddled, wretched, homeless and tempest-tost. it loves its memories, family, home but it is time for it to go


too many cold, deserted eyes at checkpoints in lonely streets pointed guns at my heart; too many clouds in rainy seasons empty of rain brought pain to my heart; too many coughs from my children's chests late into night broke my heart


my heart picks up its battered suitcase, with tape all around its ends, lest it break open and spill out my father's favorite shirt, a love letter, a picture of my beautiful children, all I have in the world, onto the ground


deep in the hull of a ship tossing on stormy seas; high on the roof of a train winding down a long, steep hill; barefoot on a dusty road


silent, back to back, knee to knee, with poor people and little children…immigrant hearts


with each step along the way our hearts whisper, "keep on”

with each mile we long for, "I’m here"

we hope for kindness

immigrants

moving

our

hearts




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