Becoming Ebony

Small Desires

54 Small Desires We had become small desires—a few cups of rice to feed a family of ten; no salt or sugar, no oil or beans, just a few pounds of raw, white rice to feed those who might be dead tomorrow. Refugees desiring a place to wait and take in small air. If you ask me about the mother awakened by tomorrow’s needs at two in the morning, I’d say, the ceiling is her company and the crickets outdoors. Her children are asleep while the old clock ticks hard; about the house, silence has a voice. As the woman lies still in bed, is she content to have a bed? No bombing, no shooting? The poor of this world have small desires— a loaf of bread, a pound of rice, a few small fish, food for today, a few tablets to heal an ailing child, fresh water to drink, a spot to lay the head. The baby Jesus was laid on a bed of odorous hay. Small wishes don’t have to have legs or arms, just the heart’s soft beats. Three children, my husband, and I are clinging to one small suitcase after the war. We are standing at O’Hare amidst suitcases banging, it is Welcome-to-America day. To be alive still is such a matter for dancing. Dan Denk is here at O’Hare with jackets, boots, hugs, tears— All our years before the war come rushing amidst this airport, and my eyes refuse to look on the years in my eyes. To have a friend like Daniel Denk, standing here, and a place to hide now is all there is to this life, and then tomorrow is settled. 55 There are a few things civil war can teach—to eat the nonedibles of this life, wild crabs, green papayas in place of bread, bamboo shoots for fish, beans as if beans were potatoes. Displacement is not a matter of will. Finding a place to hide is reason for dancing, no shouting. Those who must hide cannot give away their hiding place. ...