Mama jostled us. It must have been around 5 a.m.. Joseph grunted. His bony knee impaled my side. I deliberately fanned the blankets as I rolled off the bunk. Joseph’s grunt became a growl. He never was a morning person.
“Come see, boys! Come see!”
Mama’s voice was electrified. She’d been awake for hours already. Watching, shivering, hoping to catch a glimpse of The Lady, as she called it, welcoming us to our new home.
“The Lady, she is there. Come see, David. Get your brother.”
“Mama, it’s just a statue,” Joseph scoffed.
“No, my son, she is Lady Liberty.”
Friday Fictioneer hostess with the mostest, Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields, challenges writers to make every word count. Check out the flash fiction for this week’s prompt here.
I’ve used Statue of Liberty photos I’ve taken in other posts, but never from the perspective of an immigrant. Many of my ancestors were native to America. So, it hasn’t occurred to me to put myself in the shoes of someone arriving through Ellis Island. Must be all that schoolin’ makin’ me see things from a different point of view.
I love this country with its magnificent landscapes and rugged, ragged history. I love that we are part of a great experiment with time enough left to achieve remarkable results. I love its balmy places, its blustery places, the rarefied air of its sacred places and the faces, oh the many different shades of faces, whose blood, sweat, and tears unite us and keep us ever clinging to the promise of liberty and justice for all.
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