East Bay Times—July 5, 2021
At dawn, the sun is confirmed dead. Loss is heavy, eerie, foreign. Shoveling mounds of debris, oak, and rubble, I locate pieces of ruined porcelain—the head of Buddha, decapitated. I am learning how to mourn without tears the way my parents did after losing their home, their belongings in the Vietnam War, escaping by boat on hazardous seas, displaced and separated in refugee camps, immigrating to America with nothing but hope.
1 Comment
Robin Hampton
9/9/2024 03:23:15 pm
I rarely speak of this part of my history, but I have lost my home to fire twice. The first was when I was three years old, in Baldwin Hills. It was early morning, and somehow my parents managed to get me out just in time. We became homeless, moving from one place to another, with no relatives to take us in. We eventually found a place in an apartment, but my parents' marriage did not survive. It seemed to crumble, reduced to nothing but ashes by that first fire.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
FLASH GLASS: A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF FLASH FICTION, PROSE POETRY, & MICRO ESSAYSCOVER IMAGE:
|
Glassworks is a publication of Rowan University's Master of Arts in Writing 260 Victoria Street • Glassboro, New Jersey 08028 [email protected] |
All Content on this Site (c) 2024 Glassworks
|