feature story
myMagazine/January, 2012 51
There’s nothing left there,
And now they’re back home.
My neighbors are gone.
I see the same truck,
Pulling up to my house.
I must change my clothes,
For visitors shouldn’t see me in this dirty blouse.
Before I pick out my shirt,
I hear a loud “thunk”!
My body quickly flinched.
And my heart quickly sunk.
I close my eyes…
When I open them again,
I don’t see the five men.
I don’t see my mother,
Or my five year old brother.
Where are they taking me,
I don’t have a clue.
I sit there still and wonder,
“I might be going home too.”
Outside my window,
My neighbors.
Immigrants.
They're limited, but "free".
Limited, but "equal".