Everything green
The ground, winter tree roots,
And the stones ---
Hanging with moss.
My boots sink deep into
Moss, grass, water.
My fingers run along the stones
Dark and grey,
Green with fresh lichen
Unmoveable even after so many
Years. I close my eyes and see the cottage,
Enclosed in wood with a dirt floor, perhaps,
A small stove and a chimney with rising smoke
Warm inside amidst the Norwegian snows.
I stand by these stones which
Held a family once, poor but strong,
And a small boy who they thought
Wouldn’t live past his first year,
Would follow his triplet siblings
In the soft earth. But he lived ---
And followed his older brother to
America. A photograph shows him
That day, in a long cloak and a cap,
standing with his father, whom he
Would never see again, in the country
He would never see again until
He was 80 years old, when finally,
After years of letters, he saw
His family and homeland again.
My great-grandfather, who lived to 99,
Who I remember in the nursing home
When I was small because there was an
Aquarium with colorful fish and I would
Watch them while he held my mother’s
Hand, softly saying “Ja” and “Nei”…
And now, as I stand on this earth where he
Stood, where he lived, where he was born,
Where he decided to leave this breathtaking
Place for a chance at a better life,
Where he made a decision that
Determined my existence; I wish I
Had a chance to ask him how and why,
To ask him how it was and to see him
In this place. But I can only stand and
Wonder, and write, and live with
his memory and this land in my heart.