Imagination is All I Have When History Gives Me Nothing

Alex Carrigan

̶ Dani Putney

I don’t know who was the first person

in my family to arrive in America.

Odds are they came from Ireland in the

19th century, decked out in tweed,

Irish lilt on their tongue.

One of them made it to rural Michigan

and renamed a logging camp into

the town my father would come of age in.

I wonder what songs came to mind

when he compared the woods to Eden,

if there was a leaf or piece of bark

that felt just right in his hand.

Would he walk with his wife and children

through the trees, or would he keep

the happenings of nature to himself?

My dad said he was working on a family tree,

but I imagine he’s forgotten it under

a Fox News report or a case of Coors Light.

The binder with all our family member’s names

is probably in his basement somewhere next to

the old train set and the Christmas decorations.

Until I work up the nerve to go visit him,

I’ll have to think about who

that daring Carrigan was

to cobble up the coins needed to

come in search of opportunity.

Perhaps I’ll find some woods to walk around

in until then, and hope that something

about the feel of bark in my hand

ties me to something greater.