Rocking

The divine sea rocks its endless waves.
Listening to the loving seas,
I rock my child.
At night, the vagabond wind sways the wheat.
Listening to the loving winds,
I rock my child.
The Heavenly Father silently rocks
thousands of worlds.
Sensing His hand in the shadow,
I rock my child.

Gabriela Mistral - Chilean, 1189-1957

The Color of Paris

She wasn't prepared for the many shades of grey, the sepias.
After months of rejection, then anticipation, she envisioned a more verigated span.
But then, who would recognize the color of freedom?

Choking smoke sears her throat, causing an eruption of fresh tears.
She pulls the child closer; her breast a cushion, an armor.

Words swirl around her head, indistinguishable and angry.
Bodies, foul, crushing.
This was to be their escape - a portal.
Instead the steerage is suffocating, as her gut refuses to settle.
Again her baby cries out. Or is it the toothless boy whose elbow juts into her sore ribs?
Day, night, day -- as the the angry sea takes them forward.

Ana's Aire

This night, the sea appears angry, poised to settle an old grudge?
She smooths young Stella's hair - my child, my hope, my blessing
Again, she must move the child to the side rail as she expels the small contents within her stomach.

Among the days of darkness, she has encountered kindness.
The young man with gentle eyes - dark, Serbian.
Not understanding her words, but offering his tattered, woolen gloves - one more layer against the wind and comfort to her cracked and blistered hands.
She had to hold fast to the ropes so she and the child would be safe.
The old woman squeezed in next to her. Showing Stella her two shiny coins - a trick with her hankie.

She thinks of Paul - how is he passing this night? A gentle pat to her skirt pocket where his last letter rests - tattered now, from so many refoldings. He has settled into the new life, finding a house in the company village for them. Small, but fitting. There are not so many rations in this new life -- bread, cigarettes, occassionally, a chicken.
The mines are providing. His back aches as he crawls through he low, tight spaces.
But the dust isn't too bad. He is lonely and often enjoys the whiskey with her brother after their shifts.
He also admits to needing help trying to get the black soot from his trousers.
She smiles and can see his blue, blue eyes. Moj ljubezen.

As the boat begins to settle, she gazes above, knowing the stars overhead are the same ones he sees this night. Stella shifts in her arms, she hums a lullaby -
"Oh wee child, moj majhen hci, so brave."
Soon, you will see your Oce, your Papa.

Cultivation

Memories of her days take up space, pass the hours.

The dawn, red and burning. Thin stockings, muddy boots, cold pail handle, smooth udders.
Eyes shut against it all as she worked. By touch she came to know.

Seeds expertly sown with a blessing, a promise.
The cherished cart - adding modern convenience. Wheels grinding through the raw, heavy sod.
Father pushes forward with fierce determination - his face permanently frowned, but he is pleased with her.
Raking, pulling until she ached to her core.
Splinters from the day. Brother teasing her for being bothered by them.
Over time she learned to hide her hands - they looked like Franc's.

Now, she pulls the comfort of the shawl tighter around her and the child.
The wind blows off the water and carries her mother's, mati, voice -- strong, filled with faith and the music of her heart.