Disquiet
 
~My whole dead life weighs on me, all my failed dreams, everything I had
that was never mine, the blue of my inner skies, the visible murmur of the
rivers of my soul.......
                                                                            
                    ~Fernando Pessoa

How you were born
in a small farmhouse
in the summer of 1937
on the outskirts of Haugesund.

How when you were only five,
your father went to war
and never came home.
His ship shot down at sea.
How you used to kneel at the window
and wait for him.

How poor you grew up.
Living in that tiny farmhouse
with your sister and your mother.
Building your own toys out of scraps
you found.  Wooden ships, tree bark guns.

How you ached for the flesh
of your American cousin,
that beautiful girl.

How against your own ailing mother's
wishes, you accepted a mechanic's position
aboard the ship that docked once a month
in New York's slick harbor.

How it took you ten years of sponsorship
before you were granted a Visa to live
and work in America.  Another three
to convince your cousin to marry you.

How you accepted menial factory jobs
to support your growing family.
Unrolling sheets of asbestos.
Steeped in debt, your daughters
like tiny rainbows at the end of your days.

How your lovely wife suffered
from bouts of depression.
How your daughters cost you money.
Broken bones and pierced ears and braces.

How you just wanted to quit.
But didn't.  How once or twice
you excelled and rose above the average man.

How right when you thought things were finally
moving forward, those iron gates of debt beginning
to open, she left you, taking her daughters.

How you maintained.  Visiting your sad and ever
growing, ever changing daughters,
only to leave again, one soft kiss on each
of their foreheads.

How it all came down to this.
The smell of death and disinfectant.
A bed in a hospital room, florescent lights.
Nurses, doctors, medicine.

Clocks ticking down the minutes
while machines counted out each breath.
The broken lungs.  The driving disappointments.
The disquiet.