Waiting

I stopped waiting for her years ago. Ba said she was my Má. Whenever she held me in her arms and smoothed the waves out in my hair, she said I must have belonged to a black GI and another woman. Still, she sang songs to me that were written before liberation. At the age of five, I felt a sadness in her voice that I later saw reflected in her eyes. Not until many years afterward did I understand her sadness, but already, the waves had washed it upon another shore–and no longer I wait.