inexpressible

“Eyes of an immigrant, I have seen asylums, mattresses on the floor so close to the ground, I would whisper to myself; I will never be this close to God. Recollections of guards looking for my soul, envying me for my guts, losing weight, losing hope, getting sick but never homesick. For my mother country. For her, for you, how many bruises on my knees? How many whiplashes from my roots, because of my roots? Mouth of an immigrant, my accent is crawling up my throat, suggesting that I would not really belong here. But I can say “I love you" in other languages… And my husband never asks of my pronunciation because I did not migrate to this country. I am the country. And my accent is the official language. I chose this country, but this country is not bigger than me. I love this country, but the love for me is bigger. Indeed, I am the love of my life.”