This spring-like day in Chicago,
as I relax on my back porch listening to the Byrds,
two Mexican women scurry along my sidewalk.
They balance bags of clothes on their heads.
Their alien tongues fade around the corner
as they head to the laundry mat
on Broadway Street.
Their children brown, beautiful and full of life,
unafraid of a strange land,
chase each other across my yard.
Their gleeful laughter frees my spirit.
If I close my eyes and listen,
I hear the footsteps of my grandfather's mother.
A basket of dirty clothes balanced on her head,
she follows a narrow road to the river.