departure from san juan

a poem about moving away from puerto rico to michigan

Photo by Stephanie Klepacki on Unsplash

In the hush of a dew-kissed dawn,
where the ocean whispers to timid sands,
I watched my world shrink through oval glass—
San Juan, a tapestry of lights, fading softly
as if the stars themselves were dimming.

The plane, a silver bird too eager in its flight,
climbed higher, and my heart clung
to the green arms of El Yunque,
visible then invisible
as clouds cloaked their emerald secrets.

Below, the sea—a mirror of the sky's vast sorrow—
rippled with tales of pirates and promises,
waves reaching with foamy fingers,
trying to pull us back to the land
where coquís sang me to sleep.

Michigan awaited with its strange name,
a place wrapped in cold echoes,
unknown snows that never knew
the warmth of our island sun.

Why did the palm trees wave goodbye?
Mamá squeezed my hand, her smile
a painted mask of bravery,
whispering of new beginnings
while her eyes told tales of nostalgia.

Papi talked of jobs, of futures bright,
but his voice was a thread unraveling.
The cabin hummed, a lullaby too late,
as dreams of mango trees and mofongo
slipped beneath the turbulence
of an airplane soaring away
from the land that birthed my spirit.

San Juan, do you fade from me,
or I from you?

In this high cradle above the clouds,
I am a child adrift,
looking down on a shrinking world
that will soon be
nothing but a memory of light.