Freedom

Painting by Lori Earley

When I was young,

my father used to bring home a newspaper

that we read almost in the dark as if

we were committing the worst crime

in the world. I loved the idea of being

a conscious criminal. Our hearts trembling,

our eyes assaulting each word indecently.

We - accomplices of a perfect crime.

-It was freedom-

Not the freedom we could dream

we would possibly have some day.

But the freedom of those who

slept like kings and got up like fools

on April1st, 1964.

I remember how free we all were

behind the curtains, in the dusk

when George Orwell's big brother

was sleeping or denouncing another

neighbor.

When I look back in time and

see this new generation suffering

from amnesia, I am grateful.

I know the high price we had

to pay to have our tongues back again.

So I savor this delicate word

with faith, thinking about my father

who never bent, who gave me

my first pair of wings when all we could do

was to crawl.

Karla Bardanza

This poem is a tribute to my Father.

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012