She’d chosen English names for children not yet born,
and wrote them in ink on hope’s delicate onionskin paper.
For those children she planned
piano lessons,
dance lessons.
For herself she anticipated
the pride straight A’s would bring,
front row seats already chosen
for commencement ceremonies
years to come.
She packed her dreams 
of raising future nurses or doctors,
or a retinue of artists and musicians and orators
into her suitcase – folding them neatly
for her journey across the sea.
And when she reached the distant, white shores
she set her suitcase down on a patch of farming soil,
the only place they’d let her –
tilled into impenetrable borders,
yet rich with the red of ripening strawberries.
And for the next eighty-three years
she watched with delight, with wonder,
as her suitcase unpacked itself.


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