to leave Maman.
I sit by her bedside.
Try to feed her
spoonfuls of soup,
small pieces of bread,
like she is one
of my patients.
She refuses
nourishment.
It feels like she is trying
to die.
Maman is burning
and she’s talking
in a language that no one
can recognize.
The doctor arrives.
He touches
Maman’s forehead
and applies his stethoscope
to her chest.
There is not much
we can do
except wait.
I wish my father were here.
I call for my aunt,
Sister Marie-Thérèse.
She arrives wearing
her traditional habit:
black tunic
white wimple
and black veil.
She hugs me fiercely.
Drops down on her knees
next to my mother’s bed.
Now, she is in God’s hands.
My aunt and I
pray together.
She holds the cross
around her neck
and presses it
to her forehead.
She prays to her Lord,
her Husband, and her Keeper.
I pray to my father.
Papa,
if she walks
down the tunnel
toward that loving light,
tell God
and Saint Peter
waiting at the gate
to put his golden keys away.
Tell them to please
send her back to me.
My God
doesn’t listen.
The coroner comes.
He places a black blanket
over my mother’s body
and lifts her
onto a stretcher.
They take her
through the front door
and load her
onto a wagon
pulled by six
black horses.
My God
turns the sky gray
and opens up the clouds.
My God
rains down
on me
with the thunder
of sorrow.
My God
has made me
an orphan.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1934
Letter #19
November 8, 1918
My Petit Oiseau,
If I had all the money in the world, I would buy you a house and fill our gardens with roses.
I would feed you almonds and olives, and we could sit on the porch and stare at the clouds.
We could walk around our town—any town we chose as our home.
I would be proud to be your husband. Proud to call you my wife.
Your loving and loyal,
Loup
There’s a Ford in your future
On the first day of his new job,
my father gathers
with all the new employees.
The workers fill
the factory floor.
They wait
for the initiation ceremony
to begin.
It is simple.
The employees
wear
their native costumes
from all around
the globe.
Embroidered vests from Poland.
Kaftan coats from Russia.
Sarape ponchos from Mexico.
My father wears
his fustanella—a traditional kilt,
a white billowy blouse,
and black vest
from Greece.
They walk together
melting pot
large enough to fit
ten men.
When the cauldron tips,
all of the men
walk out
wearing the same
Ford factory
uniform.
Americans. 29, 30, 31
Mama wants us to be presentable
She twists and ties
my hair
with strips
of cloth.
All night,
I struggle
to climb
the hills and valleys
poised
on the top
of my head.
I wake
in the morning
angry.
My head hurts
but it’s full
of bouncing
curls.
I avoid the mirror.
Remember
the story of Medusa?
She was transformed
into a monster
because of her vanity.
We tour the foundry
It’s red.
It’s hot.
It’s dangerous.
The floors are covered in sand.
White eyes
peek through
layers
of black soot.
I walk the line.
The noise
coming from
the machines
sounds
like music
rising up
from the depths
of hell.
Each day
my father stokes the flames
on the factory floor.
Shovels pig iron scrap,
hammers and drills.
Pours viscous
white heat
into the cauldrons.
When he comes home,
he smells
of sulfur and coke.
We hold our noses and shriek
as my mother pushes him
toward the backyard shower,
where he washes away
the dirt and grime
of a hard day’s work.
He puts on a clean shirt.
We sit down to a simple meal
of bread and butter
and tomatoes.
He places both hands over his eyes
and says to all of us,
Thank God I have a job.
On Saturday
my father puts on a suit
and his best hat
and walks out of the door.
My mother follows after him.
Where are you going?
He looks over his shoulder and says,
Mind your own business, woman!
My mother sulks all day.
She worries that he’s sick
or, worse,
he has found
a younger woman.
The truth is
even though
Modern.
American.
Women.
choose their husbands,
they still
have to serve them.
And they are tied
to their houses
like an eagle
held by its master’s tether.
We hear frantic honking
in front of our building.
When we go outside
we see my father
with his hat tipped
up like a schoolboy.
He is smiling
from ear
to ear.
Standing in front
of a brand-new,
shining black
automobile.
He drives us around all day
in our new car.
It feels like we’re traveling
on the back
of a giant
black dragon.
Shooting fire
and flying above
the long, gray roads
that lead straight
out of town.
It takes my brothers a week
before they learn to drive.
Gus takes his friends
to see a moving-picture show
at the theatre
on a Friday night.
John chauffeurs my father
to and from work.
I don’t even ask.
Good Greek Girls
don’t drive cars.
One night, my brother John
comes home drunk.
He’s swaying
and can’t get up the stairs
by himself.
Don’t tell Mom and Dad!
he hisses.
I bring him his nightclothes
and assure him
I won’t tell anyone
his secret.
If he teaches me
how to drive.
The next day
I get behind the wheel.
The black leather
feels soft and smooth
under my palms.
The road opens up.
I can see the whole world
in the windshield.
I am finally in control.
And I realize
nobody is ever
going to tell me to stay
in one place
again.
Giorgos (Gio)
Saint-Malo, France
1918
My stomach
is in knots.
I should have gone to the dance.
Will she
think of me
while she’s out
in the world
having fun?
I pray
she doesn’t meet
another person.
A better person.
Will she come
to the hospital
and wake me
with a kiss?
I wait for her
all night
and all the next day.
She doesn’t come.
I see Vera scurrying
down the hallway
with dirty sheets
and a bucket.
I ask her about Jeanne.
Her face falls.
I’m so sorry.
I meant to tell you.
Everyone is worried.
Her father has died,
and her mother is very ill.
She looks like
she wants to hug me.
She lifts her feet
not knowing where
to place
the sheets.
She won’t be back soon.
She’s taking some time.
Vera turns and walks
down the hall.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
We bury Maman
in the cemetery on the hill.
Two names
on the tombstone.
My mother’s body
in the ground.
My father’s body
lost,
in an unknown land.
I kneel down
on the grave,
place my hand
on the loose soil.
I wish I could
dig down
and lie with her
in the same bed
just like
when I was a child.
I waited so long
for Papa to return.
Now I know,
it is hopeless to wish
for things
that will never happen.
I arrive at the hospital
It’s a cool night.
I pull my shawl tighter
around my shoulders.
I can’t stop
shivering.
What will Giorgos say
when he sees me?
I don’t know
if I can even say the words.
Both of my parents are dead.
For a brief second,
I imagine
that he will ask me
to marry him.
I turn the corner
and stop.
Gio’s bed is empty.
I search
the other beds
frantically.
I look for
his books
his jacket
his watch.
Finally,
I ask the head nurse.
They shipped him out
two days ago.
Healthy enough
to go back to the front.
No note
No goodbye.
Did I imagine everything?
I have no one.
Who will love me
now?
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1934
Letter #20
November 9, 1918
A storm is coming.
The wind sounds like the rumbling wheels of a freight train.
From the window, I can see the giant oak.
It’s been standing in this courtyard for three hundred years.
Swaying with each storm but not going anywhere.
Petit Oiseau
You must have had dreams
when you were my age.
Didn’t you, Mama?
She stops cleaning the dishes.
Wipes her hands
on her apron
and sits down next to me.
Sometimes
the thickest dreams
become just
thin air.
Then
only the birds
can use them
to fly.
A second meeting is arranged
I can hear
my parents talking
and clinking glasses
in the kitchen.
I see my father
peer around the doorframe
to check on me.
To make sure I’m behaving.
Dimitris leans closer.
He places
his heavy hand
on my thigh.
A lion trapping
a mouse
under a paw.
My skin shivers.
My eyes turn green.
Please, don’t.
I try to move
away from him.
I wish there were a rock
to scamper under
and hide.
His grasp tightens.
You should feel grateful
that I want you.
It is at this moment
that I decide.
I am n
ot
a Good. Greek. Girl.
I am
a Modern. American. Woman.
There is nothing
my father can do
to make me marry
this heavy-handed
predator.
I will do as I please.
I stand from the sofa