To say I went home for the first time

when memories that nestled to stay consisted more

 

of my shimmering pink raincoat

than the pictures I am bringing myself

 

to tell you about is true. In one, I crouch

in the space between two lifted floorboards beside

 

my great uncle. Oom Jo,

who hid in this space, quiet & still. I smile wider

 

than I would now knowing

the time he spent in the dark, lying on his belly

 

waiting for boots to clomp through

& complete their search. Yes, I wore my pink raincoat

 

beside him & yes, I am certain

we found the nearest McDonalds shortly after this photograph

 

that I could eat chicken nuggets

& fries & my parents paid 10 cents per ketchup packet.

 

I am sure too that fast food joint

didn’t sit far from the street where we took another

 

photo: my grandparents, Oom Jo,

& myself on a street the government asked to name

 

after him, an honor

he refused, suggesting they name the street

 

after the men he failed

to save. My father told me that we skipped

 

from that corner singing a song

about a chicken who wouldn’t lay an egg

 

& the hot water a farmer poured

on her legs to coax her—our English beat the streets’

 

brick like chaotic rain.

How to tell you I don’t remember

 

another great uncle driving us

through Rotterdam looking at his passengers rather

 

than the road, or that rather

than breaking bread, we ate rijstafel

 

& Oom Jo felt kingly as he told us

what & how to eat. I remember taking stale

 

bread from the wooden bread box

to the pond & wanting only ducks I found

 

pretty to eat my bread.

Should I tell you I remember dancing

 

to the room’s chatter

in his lace-curtained living room, wearing

 

a costume my mother

had sewn me: pink crepe with Swiss dots,

 

thin scarves elasticated around

my wrists to follow my every move, a pair

 

of frond-like shadows.

An outfit I must have insisted

 

she pack—one that must

have glowed stunning American excess.