Waves

The wind blows through me.

I can barely feel its November chill, barely smell its oceanic scent. But I know it’s there, and I like that. It reminds me of the day my feet touched the cold steel of the ships. The day the scent of the sea surrounded me and my two girls. They were clinging to me. Pale, frail, and hollow. Eyes filled with a hardness they shouldn’t have had. It was less than a month since losing Bill. My husband.

All because some stupid potatoes got the blight.

I despaired as I boarded. I’d known that I would never again set foot on the cliffs. Underneath the clouds I’d grown up. The scent of the clovers. Tears welled up in my eyes. Patricha, my oldest, noticed. But I disguised the sadness in me. 

“Look, the docks are waving to us!” I exclaimed, brushing my chocolate hair out of my eyes; subtly drying my tears as well. I smiled at my coworkers, giving them a wave back. It had been hard, earning their respect. Burly men didn’t take kindly to some little lady stepping in. But my father had worked the ships. I’d listened to him talk. I knew my way around the docks. 

When Bill hadn’t been able to pay the bills, I’d stepped up. I’d walked up to the pier and announced myself. Got spat at. Never had I been one to take much sass. Before long, I’d been lifting crates and tying rope. Now, this would be the last time I ever saw the crew. It was sad. Almost sadder than leaving my homeland. 

Then the ship set sail. 

The trip should have taken seven weeks. Seven weeks on a crammed and cramped ship, surrounded by hundreds of other starving migrants. With bread that tasted worse than the devil’s cake and water was a fairy’s excrement. Then the storm came. Another three weeks of the stories of hatred towards Irish in the Americas echoing through our ears. But it was preferable to starving. 

Somehow, we survived. Me, Pat, Pam. We didn’t shipwreck. We didn’t catch typhus or cholera. I couldn’t help but think that angels smiled down on us. Maybe Bill had found himself up there and put in a good word. Me and him hadn't always been on the best of terms. But there had been a time when I'd liked him enough to marry. 

I remember Lady Liberty, high in the sky. Illuminated by a break in the clouds, like G-d was greeting us. I broke out in tears. Cried with relief. Not tears of sadness from before. Rather, tears of joy. Relief. Ecstasy.

I kept my children close as we made our way through the twisting lines of Ellis Island. I feared losing them, paralyzed that we wouldn’t be allowed through. That we’d have to return to that place of famine, sickness, sorrow, and death. I had come this far. We had come this far. I would have grabbed those snotty immigration officials by the collar had they not allowed us through. But, it hadn’t come to that. “Bernadette Allen?” The official blandly asked, “Oh, great, another Irish,” she muttered disdainfully when she saw my country. 

But we hadn’t even had to be quarantined. Which was a small miracle. A hundred and twenty other passengers on the Europa. We’d all boarded together from Moville. We were let through, into the world of New York. 

Then, it was off to our home. A crappy little tenant that I managed to secure with the last of my money. Almost everything that hadn’t gone into this trip had gone into five months rent. Around $60. For a cramped, three room apartment without a window. Better than most!

The very day after setting foot in the US, all of us set out for work. My eldest was hoping for a job as a nurse. She’d gotten her degree a year ago, and was more than skilled enough to get the wages. Just like Nightingale in Britain, she’d be successful. Nor was I worried about Pam. She went out to do something with those numbers in her mind. Came back with two small dogs. One liked to jump. We called them Alex and Honey. Also a post as a teacher! It wasn’t the most fruitful, she would find something better soon. 

I went straight to the docks.

“You filthy catholic beast!” 

“What’s a little lady like you doing at the docks?” 

“What’s next? Are you all bringing the Vatican?” 

Well that was super productive. But many laborers made $6 a week. That was far more than a teacher or a domestic servant. And neither of those jobs appealed to me in the slightest. So, the next day, I went back. 

I snuck to the docks. I blended in with the workers. I untied ropes and lifted boxes. It took an hour for me to be discovered. Punched and bruised, I ran home. Then I came back the next day. And it happened again. And the next. And the next. And everytime, someone would let me stay just a little longer. Start to see the value of having me around. I’d been weakened by the journey. But not enough that I couldn’t get into the groove of things quite quickly. 

“Oye, Catholic, get over here!”

“Wait, when did she start working here?”

“Here’s your pay, Barny.”

Now, here I stood. Floating above it all. My time had come, long since. Peaceful and slow. At 73, right when I’d wanted to. Now my ghost was content to hover here, looking down at the docks below. My eyes watching over a young girl, made from my blood. With graying dark brown hair and bright green eyes. Eyes with stories. She looks up and sees me, brushing a lock of hair out of her face, caught in the wind. 

As she steps onto the ship that takes her back to the land of gray skies and plentiful potatoes,

She waves back.