My children called me Imeh, just like I called my mother before I was shipped off. I was etched with four stroke of adoration, each fragmenting and strengthening me. The first one was forced upon me at the age of fourteen. I had an arranged marriage with a man named Peter who cared for me more than I ever cared for myself. Terrified and mute to the english language, Peter transitioned me from Lebanon to Detroit, Michigan. He built me my yellow ranch house with a chicken coop. I filled my rooms with three others, my children who I loved to fatten with the grease of my labor.
I packed up my life in Lebanon sixty seven years ago, with no resemblance of what my life would be like. Peter educated me, gave me the skills to be run our very own grocery store. I was able to converse with the other immigrated mothers as they picked up slices of bloodied roast. I craved their interaction as they piled onions and carrots into their baskets and it took me years to talk, my accent trapping my tongue.
My children were fluent in English and their voices were clear with a mid western cadence. Their school uniforms transformed into business suits and dresses. Their children called me Imeh too.
What I remember most is the sensation of falling. It was my fourth week on the ship and I was walking along the deck when the biggest wave of the trip hit. I remember it rocking the creaking boards beneath me and I was thrown back, sliding and watching the darkening sky swiped my vision. My limbs flailed and I saw my parents waving at me as I the boat departed from the soil of my home.
