Narrative Essay On Leaving America

The rain clambered on our small tin roof as I rolled my stone across our floor. The smooth stone glided over out bumpy floor, past my mother, who rested in her rocking chair, placid, the stone continued through the small room until it, at last, reached my brother, Rory, his sharp nose deep in a book, only his shaggy hair peeking above it. Without looking up, his left hand reached down to the floor and gently pushed the stone back. As the stone traveled past her once more, my mother stood, and announced that our father had returned. We took our bags, small in size and holding nothing more then what scraps of food we could bring, maybe a change of ragged clothing, and the remnants of our money.
I meet my father at the door, his figure drenched in the Spring rain. We all knew where we were to go, Glasgow, for we were leaving Ireland. It took us a days time to travel there, on the way I asked my father to once more regale me with the tale of America, he cleared his throat as my brother closed his book, a rare occurrence, his soft voice disrupting the quiet call of night, “In America everyone is well,” he called recited softly, “no one is hungry. In America, everyone has the opportunity to chase their dreams, no matter how foolish.” At this point even our mother's
On the boat ride to the real America, even my father said that I was not to be concerned with our money. The thought swiftly vacated my mind as we stepped foot on our new home. What lay before me was something hard to put into words, but I understood. I understood how the lady in green could stand facing outward, with pride, knowing America stood behind her, strong and united. I understood why we traveled to Glasgow that night, the city now made a small village, by comparison, leaving what little we had behind. I understood now, why we came to