BECAUSE SHE WAS NINE

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she did not know she was poor, another mouth fed on the wool torn from sheep.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she did not know it was beautiful here, green and lush, only that she could not play near the cliffs that plunged into the ocean surf below.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she stared at the water on the horizon and thought that on a clear day she could see America, and on a soft day that she could hear her mother’s voice.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she had lived her whole life across the bay from Doolin but only went there once, on the day she was taken away, as her grandfather patted her head, buttoned up her jacket and placed her aboard a boat at dockside.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she did not know to mind being cast below deck, one of the crowd huddled quietly against the hull as the boat began its trip across the ocean.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she knew she was going to die when she vomited into a bucket until there was nothing left inside her and still she could not stop gagging; she wanted to believe the woman who told her she was just seasick and that the feeling would pass.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she could barely look up when the ship arrived in New York, so weak did she feel and so grateful was she just to be away from the tumble of the waves; she clutched the piece of paper clipped to her jacket and did not mind when the officer on the dock looked at the address on the paper and rerouted her like so much freight from a foreign shore.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, and because she had never been on a train before, and because she had to trust that the conductor would put her off in the right place, and because she only spoke Irish, she could not ask for food, so she stared out the window as the strange landscape without an ocean raced by.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm, she cried when she finally reached East Hartford, hugging the mother she had not seen in four years, the father who had left Ireland when she was a baby, and even the tiny brother and sister born in America that she had never met; she kissed the tops of their little heads and knew they were the reason she was here; after all, someone needed to watch the children while their parents worked in the factories along the railroad.

Because she was nine and had never been off her grandparents’ farm.