and his amazing
flying machine,
the Blériot XI.
My father and I
join the crowd
to watch
as the daring Frenchman
turns on the throttle
and steps
to the propeller.
With several huge pulls,
the airplane begins
to hum
like a swarm of hornets.
I grab my father’s hand,
frightened by the sound.
He shouts into my ear,
Don’t you see, chérie?
This will help us win the war.
Commandeur Blériot
places his goggles
over his eyes
and waves to the crowd
before he mounts
the open frame
of the two-seater plane.
Within moments,
he speeds straight ahead
into the fallow field
and lifts
into the bright,
blue sky.
On the way home
my father
places his arm
around my shoulders.
I have to go,
mon petit oiseau.
I nod
as tears escape.
I have been trained to heal people.
His voice breaks.
I will try my best
to make you proud.
He looks
over the walls of our city
to the ocean
beyond.
I don’t want to leave you
and Maman.
I put my arms
around his neck
and he lifts me
off the ground.
Tears roll down my cheeks
onto the shoulder
of his suit.
I will try
to make you proud too,
Papa.
My mother dresses me
in my best dress.
Black stockings
and black-buttoned boots.
A large white ribbon
tied on the top
of my auburn curls.
I look like a present.
I wish
she would let me
sweep my hair up
on the top of my head.
Instead,
she dresses me
like a toddler.
We hear
the whistle
loud and clear.
My father points
through
the crowd of people
on the dock
and says,
See that
beautiful boat, chérie?
It’s going to take me
all the way
to Siam.
That night I dream of water
I am a selkie.
Half-girl and half-seal
who has found
her white coat
and can finally return
to the sea.
I swim alongside
my father’s boat,
jumping
in the foam waves
as the ship cuts
across the dark water.
I can save him
if he needs to be saved.
Up above,
an airplane looms,
sputtering
its hot fumes
into the clean air.
I wake
in sorrow.
I am just a girl.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #3
October 12, 1918
My darling, my love,
My hands are so cold I can hardly hold a pen.
I worry you will never get this.
You will never know how much I loved you.
Will these pages end up scattered like poppies across a field?
Perhaps they belong to no one.
Only God and the wind.
Your always faithful,
Loup
Letter #4
October 15, 1918
Every day, I grow more tired.
Tired of waiting. Tired of the war. Tired of my own loneliness.
How could you have left me without a word?
I am without a husband, without a father, without faith.
Living in a city surrounded by granite walls.
Did you ever love me, at all?
Forever yours,
Petit Oiseau
I fold the letters, exactly as they were
return them
to their hiding place
a doorway into
another time,
another world.
These notes
are not meant for me.
I am intruding,
spying
far beyond
into someone else’s life.
Marguerite’s footsteps
on the back steps
wake me from my dream.
I emerge from the cellar
just in time.
Ready to go to school?
I want to tell her about the letters.
The envelopes
without addresses,
without stamps.
Written long ago.
My mouth stays sealed.
Mrs. Patterson tells us to be proud
We live in the City of Transportation.
Founded on
Henry Ford’s
original idea.
The busy hands of builders
forge and lathe, work and tend,
spin and weave, form and transform
the ideas of men into objects
for the world. 8
She stands
in front of the class.
Her hands clasped
under her chin.
Wonder spreads
across her face
as she says,
We are proud of our city
and our brothers and fathers
who have built
the foundation
of our modern
nation.
Yes. We are proud
of our brothers and our fathers.
But I want to ask:
What about
our sisters and our mothers?
Who carry generations
in their wombs
who rise and feed us,
clothe us,
and tend to us
who birth each day
into being?
She calls me to the front
of the class.
Mary, please list
the ways
Henry Ford
and the factories in Detroit
are helping
America’s economy.
My heart flutters
as I walk
to the board.
She hands me
a piece of chalk.
It rolls
out of my hand
onto the floor.
I reach down,
balance on one foot.
Barely reach
for the chalk
and . . . rip.
&nbs
p; Just like
a molting insect
that has grown
too large
for its shell,
my dress
tears
down my back.
Everyone in the class
laughs.
Especially Evie,
whose long arms
are spread
across her desk.
A spider poised
and ready
to eat me.
Elena stands up.
Leads me
back to the bench
with Marguerite
who wraps
her sweater around me
in a hug.
My mother claws through
her bulging basket
of fabric scraps.
Chooses a triangle
of dark-brown corduroy.
Stitches it
into the seam
of my shredded dress.
I try it on
to make sure it fits.
I am a walking quilt.
To console me
she lets me sit on the counter
while she makes
the baklava
for the store.
She gives me
the first piece.
As I bite into it,
the honey drips
down my arm.
I am as happy
as a bear
that has stolen
a honeycomb
from a hive.
In the store, we sell:
fruits and vegetables
soap for dishes
soap for laundry
coffee and tea
candy
whole watermelons
and cold soda pop,
submerged in a big case
filled with water and ice
cans of soup
loaves of bread
pickles and eggs, in large barrels
filled with brine
meat, which my father carves
at the wooden counter
feta, a Greek cheese
spanakopita, a delicious spinach pie
moussaka, an eggplant casserole
baklava, a crispy dessert
made with nuts and honey
I call Marguerite Little Mama
She loves to be in charge
of the house.
I’d rather
work at the store.
I love the smell
of the wooden floorboards
the food resting
on the counter
the sweat and perfume
of the customers.
Even the money has a smell.
Mama, do you think we could
convince father
to let me work in the store?
Why would you
want to work
in the store?
I like the store.
I need your help at home.
You have Marguerite.
I need you both.
Mama, don’t you think
it would be a good idea
for me
to learn the business?
Why would you want
to learn something
that you will never use?
Learn how to feed your husband.
Learn how to raise the babies.
She pats her belly.
Then she points
her forefinger
in my direction.
Learn how to keep your opinions
to yourself.
Mama, I’ve been thinking about Dimitris
Her ears perk up.
She lifts her chin
and her eyebrows.
Yes?
I straighten my skirt
and spine
to make myself
seem taller,
like I’m frightening
a bear.
When I marry Dimitris . . .
Yes?
That is, if he’ll have me . . .
Yes.
Don’t you think
he would want someone
who knows something
about a store?
The mother bear
takes two steps back.
Lots of girls
can have babies.
Yes.
The bear stomps the ground
and snorts.
Maybe, if I can help
with Dimitris’s store
it will make me seem . . .
useful?
Yes.
Yes?
I stand behind the counter
place my palms
on the smooth varnished wood.
The store is empty
and quiet.
I take a deep breath
and savor my victory.
When I’m bored
I wipe each shelf.
Tally up receipts.
Record sales.
Dance with a mop.
Restock items.
Make tea.
Try not
to eat the candy.
Draw
monsters and angels
on the frosty
cold cases.
Look at myself
in the shiny cabinet.
Wonder
if I’m beautiful.
I also think about
what we could change
to bring more customers
into the store.
Since, it appears,
there are not
very many.
You know that look
when the sun
is horizontal in the sky
and someone is lit
from behind?
You can barely
see their face
because they are bursting
with light.
And you wish you
had a camera
to capture
all the shadows
and shine.
It was like that.
When I looked
at the shop door
there was a man
who was glowing.
I had to shield my eyes.
Light escaping
every edge
every surface.
Streaming
from his fingertips
each strand
of hair.
I couldn’t
see his face
until he stopped
right in front
of me
and smiled.
Holding
a polished red apple
in his hand.
He looks American
like he was raised on a farm
in Nebraska.
Tall and blond.
I stare at his blue eyes
and white teeth.
Who are you?
I stammer.
I’m Billy Smith.
What are you doing here?
I’m . . . buying an apple?
He places a nickel
into my hand.
Can I help you
find anything else?
He flashes his smile
one more time and says,
I think I’ve found everything
I’m look
ing for.
He walks backward
five steps,
staring at me.
Turns
and walks
out of the door.
I hear an engine rumble
and make it to the window
just in time
to see the rear bumper
of his shiny, red
Ford Cabriolet.
My heart stops beating
for five seconds.
What would it feel like?
To have a name
like Smith or Jones?