Customs and Immigration

Customs and Immigration

It was April, and a cold day, when I showed my passport to the man in the uniform who stood at the entrance to your heart. That building was under construction; a crane hoisted girders and men poured concrete. They watched, amused, as I waited, my hair blowing around in the wind. I stood there for a long time, until it grew dark. The construction workers packed up and left for the night, and I waited still. The man in the uniform had disappeared into the construction trailer, along with my passport. I got tired of standing, and sat down on the asphalt. Late, late that night he came back out to me. I was dozing with my head leaning down and my arms wrapped around my knees, like a child, and I was stiff with the sitting and the cold. The man in the uniform gave me back my passport, and shook his head no. So I stood up, stamped my feet to wake up my legs, and went away again. I walked the streets all that night, wondering what was wrong with my papers. 

— Amy Isikoff Newell