Immigrants
My Uncle Al died in 1954 or ’55. I only recall him
from wrinkled snapshots taken when I was too young
to recall much of anything. Good-looking, the only one
of four brothers with a full head of hair, he was my sister’s
favorite uncle, my grandma’s favorite son, the one
who most reminded her of a brother she’d left behind
in the old country who, like Uncle Al, died young.
What Uncle Al died of I could never get straight
and can’t to this day, even when I ask my cousin,
his sole surviving son. It was something to do with
burst bowels and drinking too much Milk of Magnesia
or Pepto-Bismol some guy gave him at the Jo-Car Bar.
Uncle Al survived all the invasions in Europe, I’ve been told,
though what I’ve been told about family matters has never
been all that clear: Like the two great-uncles on my mother’s side
who set off from Austria for Allentown, then on to Milwaukee
and were never heard from again. I’d say offhand that the
immigrant working-class of those days didn’t go in much
for communicating, much less recording, adrift
in the haze feeling rootless entails.
Did I mention that I have more cousins in Europe
than in America and that if one ever drifted off
to Milwaukee I’m sure I’d be notified on Facebook?
I guess you might say we’ve arrived, though lately
I’ve been thinking of heading back the other way
so that if one of them came here I might well
be on my way there, anywhere but here where
ICE keeps swarming and guns keep firing
with no enemy in sight except for the deer.