A personal poem dedicated to one of the greatest women who ever lived, my grandmother.
She came across the great divide
when she was just a teen.
That was nineteen hundred eleven,
what a long life it has been.
She passed through Ellis Island,
just another immigrant.
Migrated up to Boston's North End,
where the rest of her life she spent.
It was here that she met Arturo,
who we never got to know.
They reared seven children, before he passed away
nearly 50 years ago.
But Assunta would persevere
because she always had her faith.
She kept her family together, through the toughest times,
and she did it without a mate.
My memories are vivid ones
and they live on Cooper Street.
Where every week, in our Sunday best,
all our families would meet.
The common bath, the sewing machine,
the mysterious dark hall.
A pot of gravy on the stove,
Arturo's picture on the wall.
These are the days I remember,
days of reverence and cheer.
There are many times that I wander back
and wish that I were there.
Assunta Lauretano has died
the obituary said.
53 survivors left behind,
I was crying as I read
But that doesn't do her justice,
for she means much more to me.
She didn't leave survivors.
She left a legacy.