You didn’t know
how America would mold us.
You didn’t know the falsehood
of the American Dream.
Your Russian tongue slowly lost
its song and shattered China
Decorated the floor as you stood
Practicing the same words
over and over.
You turned the blame inward
and cursed at the mirror.
Your eyeliner would smear and
Your mascara would clump as
Your fiery tears turned to
ashes on your cheeks
and it was me you left
alone as you turned to
dreamless sleep.
But, every now and then
you would rise without rest
your petite shoulders hunched
as you clawed at your chest.
Shouts replaced sobs and
your voice echoed against
our wood-paneled walls
and travelled through the
ears of the reckless drunk
you’d call—only to find out
that you’d need bail or bond.
After the third time he was gone.
You didn’t know how we’d
lay in the snow,
mother and daughter,
trying to make angels
that we didn’t believe in.
We’d rise together and solidify
flakes while giving him a scarf
and gloves for the sticks
but Frosty wasn’t my father
Nor a companion for you.
You didn’t know you’d go through
another husband
or two.
Waiting for a love that
I could never provide you.
But you kept on searching
as any mother would do
while trying to cover our
lavender bruises and
two gaping wounds.
You didn’t know how much
I looked up to you.
Veronica Garis is a senior English major with a minor in women’s studies. She is currently a writing tutor and Communications Coordinator for the writing center at Penn State Learning.