Читать книгу Breathing Space - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 16

on the night table, I saw a stone

with many names scribbled on

it carried by her across the border,

used for a paper weight for the scant

letters from home. her thin hands

often reached for those huddled words

that gently massaged her aching heart

and reminded her of another country

far away. about once each week she

laid awake at night trying to remember

whether or not she wrote a letter about

life in Alphabet City, or the feeling of

living like a mural with the names of

the dead painted on the side of a building

people could only see from a distance. heavy

rains on the Lower East Side always made

her wildly weep about being confined to hiding

and slowly perishing in a world that never cared

to learn her name. on the bottom of the stone

paper weight, she wrote the name of her murdered

brother, and a tiny prayer that said, “Lord, help this

world see we are human beings.”