Third Cousins in Norway

I would have been the one who stayed
behind. Timid, afraid of oceans
choosing familiar over precarious
caring for parents and sickly aunts
safer than uncertain wilderness
where Red Indians threatened.

I would have written letters
with news of deaths or sickness
births and weddings
tucking pansy seeds inside envelopes
to homesick brothers on North Dakota
prairies and Minnesota pineries.
Reading their stories from afar, stroking
blond curls of nephews’ hair
pressing the locks to my lips
knowing I would never see their faces
hear baby voices.

I would have been the last of my
generation left in Norway,
the only one to speak with tenderness
connect a face with names, share memories from childhood
answer questions why they left and what they gained
or lost by leaving.

I would be the one who stands
on the other side of the door
flatbread and lefse baked and waiting
hand-woven cloths with Hardanger lace
reindeer sausage, gjetost brown cheese
everything to perfection.
Welcoming distant cousins from America,
astonished they could travel so far
and yet find their way home

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