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Island Roots
by Rita Gardner
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The ferry lurches on fraying ropes each time a wave shoves the dilapidated vessel close enough for another passenger to be hauled aboard. An old woman crosses herself and a small child cries out as he is handed across. Men throw battered luggage, a live pig and various household belongings haphazardly onto the deck.
I’ve just arrived at the harbor near Miches, my childhood home in the Dominican Republic. . .
. . . . . . On my last day in Miches, I am drawn back to my old house for a final look. Seeing no one around, I climb through a hole in the fence and make straight for a small concrete step by the front door. Heart pounding, I brush dead leaves off the surface until a small footprint becomes faintly visible. I swallow hard, remembering my father holding me over the damp cement when I was maybe five, and the coolness as I pressed my foot down to make the impression. I touch the slight indentation wordlessly and place my grownup foot alongside the gentle press of toes and the perfect curve of tiny heel. . .
. . .
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