[100 Challenge] Ocean_07

Drinking Fire, Wearing Clouds

Once, in the time before airplanes, in the time before screens, a girl is born. Born loose in the fields, the same way her sisters and brothers are born, some of whom live and some of whom do not. As to what hour, what day, what month, even what year it is when she is born, we do not know, because there is no birth certificate issued for such field births. Her family isn’t overjoyed to welcome her into the world, because here in Poland in this age boys are considered more valuable for farm work. There is an uncle who rocks her and laughs and plays games with her, but before she is grown up to barely half his height he must leave for somewhere, and never comes back. She works in the fields from a very young age. The toiling is heavy, and her hair grows long and her hands hard. But through all the hot days and the cold days and the long days and the lonely days she has her song, the song she keeps in her chest, an old song passed field to field and throat to throat in that country. A country where her people are not wanted. A country of hardship.

Then one day the postman, a rare visitor, rides up with his mule laden with papers and hands the girl a letter. Her uncle has sent for her, and enclosed a ticket for that place with the hard-sounding name, that place of all dreams and all distance: America. 

A valise, a steamship, and she is gone.