I search for you yet do not even know your name. I press on praying my effors will prove fruitful the records do not list you or the other women who have lived and loved and laughed, gave birth, and died but I stand whole and bare my soul and vow to find you as I live, I search for you in old records, in churches, at the Embassy, in small dimly lit rooms in the back of obscure libraies and archives and pour over barely readable handwritten ledgers with magnifying glass and flashlight I live on mainly toast these days there isn't time for meals or much sleep feeling as I always do, on the very brink of discovery. Perhaps this will be the day I find the one seemingly insignificant clue, which wil lead me to you, although I did not find you listed in the Census Records. I am not deterred, you may turn up yet, on a immigration or naturaliztion list somewhere perhaps, or maybe tucked away inside some bank or vital statistics's long forgotten line so many others, your name having become lost over the long years. Your name could be lying even now, admidst the millions of documents stored and locked away safeguarded in the boweles of a giant warehouse
all stopped up from apathetic crowds, who have long creased their visits
your precious name, lying just inside a myriad of records packed in tight, in the stay never guessing I would come.
© Sarah Elizabeth Rose
