“[There are] thousands of other lost “orphans”
whose lives were changed forever by
the greed and hypocrisy of church and state.”
~ Martin Sixsmith
My Mother is far from where she belongs.
It’s been about sixty years
since she’s been on the soil
that saw her come into this world.
Out of my siblings, I’m the one that reflects
her true heritage.
Red hair, no shortage of freckles,
pale skin that can turn black and blue
with a brush of the wind.
All things she reminds me of
and tells me how much I look just like her.
When she’s drunk, she likes to talk in an Irish accent
that she didn’t even have to begin with.
It never got to develop because
she was ripped from the land overseas
that could have been her home.
A whole set of traditions lost
on the passage to New Jersey.
While halfway through a bottle of
Pinot Grigio she confessed that
She thought she was a lost child of Ireland.
I believe her.
I picture her mother,
Sent to a convent for getting pregnant out of wedlock
and forced to give her up.
Nuns take her away and prepare her
to be adopted
by an American family.
I will find her the voyage home.
By: Erin Winans
I wrote this poem a while ago, but was afraid to share it. But, poetry is supposed to be personal and it’s a way to put your feelings out there.
I haven’t shared this poem with her, but I know that I should one day.