Thursday, March 8, 2012

Elderly Immigrant in Rest Home

What more you want me to say? 
They brought me to America 
When I was not yet four— 

No memories of the homeland, 
No children no dreams left 
To even up the score. 


  1. what an elegy V. !
    every one knows the score now

  2. At first I thought it was just me -- old, cold, late, the wrong time, the wrong place, the headache that hit in the windy bus stop at midnight.

    But no.

    Elisabeth's right.

    I think it's that open ending into the void does it.

  3. Echoes. I've not actually heard such
    but I've seen it in some old Greek eyes
    where they couldn't find the words.
    Beyond sad.
    Tom's right.
    This void hits like a gut punch.

    Thanks, Vassilis!

  4. A composite portrait, partly imagined, partly true but based primarily on my recollections of the old Greeks I found upon my coming to America; at that time there were few left in the Willapa Harbor area, most of them unmarried and unable to fulfill their dream of returning to Greece as reasonably well-off Greek-Americans or “Brooklides”--what the ones who did manage to return were called because of the belief that every European immigrant entering America had to cross over the Brooklyn Bridge!

    Thanks to you all for commenting.


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