We label them immigrants, those who cross borders with dreams and photographs and extra shoes stuffed into a single bag, carrying what they cannot leave behind, cultures that trail them like weather. They push through mountains, oceans, that unnamed dark between one life and another, hunting for ground they can call theirs. But consider a man rooted in his childhood house, still holding echoes of his own loud laughter, stories worn into doorframe wood he touches every day without thinking. He knows his streets by their cracks, his neighbors’ dogs, the shop owners’ bad moods, a strange face before the stranger speaks. Each morning, a small crossing. Each unfamiliar knock, a border to decide. He drags what he cannot set down— old regrets, unmade choices— wanting to belong somewhere he already is. Time doesn’t ask. Seasons shift without ceremony, and one day even this house, the one that first held him, will let him go. And the woman on a park bench, scattering seed; years have pressed their mark on her hands, on how she holds her face into wind. Around her: children running until their lungs ache, couples folded into each other on the grass, each life arriving, each one leaving, as all things do, pressing only faint weight where they sat. She knows what birds know. Nothing stays. And still she opens her hand. We are all of this; moving through time’s long country, bodies full of what we cannot unknow, hearts crowded with those who passed through. Every exchanged glance, every laugh cut short, every door we stood before not quite knowing whether to enter: all of it marks us as pilgrims, borrowing the spaces where we sleep, even those who plant themselves for decades. A migrant lives in all of us. That reaching for connection, that need to be recognized; it doesn’t care whether you crossed a continent or lived your whole life in the same three blocks. We pass through. What we leave isn’t monuments. Just a small dent of having been here, of having turned to someone and said: I see you.
Life’s journey shows us daily that we’re all immigrants, newcomers to each day.
My life’s journey is a collection of transient moments, each a souvenir of experience. Every brief happiness, every meeting, is a reminder of my impermanent existence, a journey shared with others seeking purpose and connection.
This insight makes me more grateful for small things—smiles, sunrises, each breath—symbols of our shared humanity that bind us together on life’s winding road.
Author’s Note
This poem, Travelers, was awarded a medallion for poetry and featured in Top in Fiction.
My award-winning book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.
Upcoming…
January’s writing prompt:
One Hundred-Word Wonders, 15 January 2025
For those who want a head start, this month’s theme and prompt word: JUDGMENT. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the theme, prompt word, or both. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 15th!
New Book: Immigrant Dreams
Immigrant Dreams, a collection of 33 poems celebrating the resilience and hope of those who dare to dream beyond borders, is now available for preorder in digital and paperback formats.
PAID subscribers ONLY: please DM or email (caro.e.henry@gmail.com) me your contact information for ONE free, signed paperback copy.
Publication Date: January 17, 2025.
Preorder at Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple | Tolino | Vivlio | Smashwords | Fable
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That first stanza reminds me of Carol Rumens’ The Border Builder 🌸