The second time through,
on page thirty-six, with only
four to go in the passenger lists of the SS Blucher,
my eyes heavy as marbles,
I finally found her, sailing across
a great ocean, 20 years old, $30 in her
mended pocket, a "dressmaker" she claims,
this young woman, leaning against the rail,
who will have a child
who will also one day have a child,
who will be me,
looking now at this line, reading it again and again,
the barely legible, "Sonia Sholkov," my grandmother,
a line more moving than any in all literature.
Pereyaslov fades beyond memory.
Your mother Viggassy, gone.
Dead ahead, America.
June 19, 1913.
Welcome back to me,