In nineteen sixty three, when I was born,
my parents had just recently been torn
from Cuba which had been their lifelong world
till its descent to tyranny had hurled
vast numbers of the people of that isle
toward a permanent and far exile.
But though my birth occurred in sixty three
in what’s been called the land of brave and free,
my sister’s birth had been in sixty two,
and shortly afterward, my parents—who
as Catholics had avoided contraception—
were taken by surprise by my conception.
My mom and dad were poor, but life had worth,
so on the heels of my big sister’s birth,
that which would be me unfurled unthwarted,
since they believed no one should be aborted.
To this I owe the fact that I’m alive,
plus that my dad possessed a hardy drive.
My parents, while they were impoverished,
had one more child than they would have wished.
Already with two girls to bring them joy,
they got what then they lacked, with me, a boy.
Their friends donated blood to pay a fee
although the doctor’s services were free,
and I am thankful to them to this day
who paid for me with blood they gave away.
Although we started out as poor as dirt,
each with not much more than pants and shirt,
the country welcomed many refugees
from man-induced disasters overseas
and helped my family get on its feet
till we ourselves could work to make ends meet,
returning many times the help we got,
still who we were, yet in a melting pot.
Years later, when I’d long since passed the age
my parents were back in that youthful stage,
I’d see as people who had been exiled
from homelands full of violence were reviled,
and parents even were torn from their kids
while seas arose from underneath eyelids.
Exiled from my childhood by years
that haven’t had as much a cause for tears,
I know, despite a life of ample ease,
in some way we will all be refugees,
exiled from our youth, or homes, or health,
or happiness, or way of life, or wealth,
and so I hope that all who flee some hell
are met with open arms and offered help
as were my parents when they were exiled
not long before I had become their child.
Mario A. Pita
(Part 1 of Pentameter Memoir)
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