Green Roads

by Dulce Maria Menendez

The road we take leads to our demise.

Look at this road I travel on every Sunday.
I pass rows and rows of tall green corn
alongside purple majesty flowers.

It is such a different road and so far away
from the road mami and papi were following
that morning we left Havana.

My mother is waiting in the distant
hallway, small in stature compared to the
woman who used to take me by the hand
whenever we crossed roads.

Every Sunday I ask her the same question.
Mami tu sabes quien soy yo?

She doesn't answer so I ask
her again as if she did not hear me
the first time or the second or third time.
Anything to jar the roads and roads of lost memories.

My mother's eyes are green pools of oceans
now replaced by roads of rows and
rows of green corn fields without the sting
of salt in the air. Yet it is the same clear
blue sky blanket that covered us when we left.

My mother's eyes in silence
tell me who I am every Sunday.

We are still refugees.

She to Alzheimer's and
me to continually asking myself
who am I.