How does it feel to start over?
Who Makes the Journey by Cathy Song
In most cases,
it is the old woman
who makes the journey;
the old man having had
the sense to stay
put and die at home.
You see her scurrying
behind her
newly arrived family.
She comes from the Azores
and she comes from the Orient.
It makes no difference.
You have seen her before:
the short substantial
legs buckle
under the weight
of the ghost child
she carried centuries
ago like a bundle of rags
who now turns in front
of your windshield,
transformed in Western clothes.
The grown woman stops impatiently
and self-consciously
to motion Hurry to her mother.
Seeping into your side view
mirror like a black mushroom
blooming in a bowl of water,
the stooped gnome figure
wades through the river
of cars hauling
her sack of cabbages,
the white and curved,
translucent leaves of which
she will wash individually
as if they were porcelain cups.
Like black seed buttons
sewn onto a shapeless dress,
those cryptic eyes
rest on your small reflection
for an instant. Years pass.
History moves like an old woman
crossing the street.