Fifty and Five Years Ago

 

 

Alone in an aisle seat,
way back in the economy cabin.
It was my first time inside an airplane.
Witnessing the plane take off,
people moved about at ease.
And yes,
restrooms right behind me.

Before the flight,
I knew nothing but
Wright brothers invented the airplane.

No one taught me what to expect.
When the meal cart arrived,
I didn’t know what to do.

What button to push to bring up the tray.
I was full of curiosity,
forgot if I was hungry or not.
Everything was new,
strange and thrilling.

 

Before coming to America,
I read about western meal etiquette:
fork, knife, instead of chopsticks.
Salad, main dish, dessert with coffee.
I never had coffee prior to this voyage.
After first sip,
the bitter taste prompted me to look for sugar.
The tiny paper bag marked with “S” caught my eye,
right away I took it, lucky me, I found sugar.
Ripped it open, dumped all in my cup.
And my, my, my, it was salt.
I mistakenly took it for sugar.

I’ve kept that salty, bitter taste

in my heart since then.
 

I would rather be

like those through Ellis Island,

welcomed by “Mother of Exiles”*

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,”*

Instead,
I got a warning taste.
Even before landing on this new continent.

 

Through all these years,
I’ve tasted some real coffee.
Freshly ground,
drip by drip.
What a smell, coming out of the brewing.
Latte, espresso, cappuccino;
And my favorite,
caramel frappe.
And there are more varieties, flavors…

All these magical tastes,
all the extra
sugar coated,
aroma, smell, wrapped in roasted warmth,
masking the sharp and harsh sensation.
The disguise to indulge for a moment.
No different than we all do in life.
Yours,
and mine.

This morning,
I stared at the complete pitch black
over the ridge where sun is still hiding.
Thinking of a dear friend

just decided to end three-years of
weekly, hopeless chemo,
moved into hospice.
He wrote us,
this is his last chapter.
The dying vine clinging to a crumbling wall.

 

Some things never change.
There will always be darkness,
bitterness, then final peace.

What I tasted fifty and five years ago,
was just the beginning.
 

​
 

*From the poem “The New Colossus,” by Emma Lazarus. In 1903, the poem was cast onto a bronze plaque and mounted inside the pedestal’s lower level of the Statue of Liberty in New York City.