The Return Home

July 1, 1899

Dear Mother and Brother,

I saw him when I arrived in New York. Father. He was huddled in the corner, homeless, wrapped in a blanket and his face dirty, but I recognized him as soon as I saw him. As I approached him, his eyes remained downcast, and extended his hand for some spare change. When I didn’t respond, he looked up and he stared, recognition showing in his eyes. For a minute we stood there, staring at each other, me at the image of poverty, what I could have been had I not been so fortunate, and him at the image of wealth and sickness. Shakily he stood up, still staring at the gaunt figure of his son and at the expensive suit he wore. Finally he stood. Emaciated at he was, he carried himself with dignity, his back straight and his face proud. Slowly, his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he embraced me. What a strange pair we must have looked like; a well-dressed man embracing an old beggar on the street, both crying and laughing at the corner of the street. After our reunion, the first thing I did was to take him to a diner, where he ate more than he had probably did in months. During this time he was able to tell me his story, how he had entered New York with hopes and dreams like I had, but instead had been chewed and spit out, cast out like a leper. He told me how language barriers had made it difficult for him to find work and eventually he could no longer afford the housing bills. Without any skills within the city, and without the money to travel to a farm to work, he was trapped and eventually found his way to the street. In a city where thousands lived, he was an insignificant speck in the metropolis. But I will get him home. Already I have ordered a second first-class ticket on the steamer home and bought sufficient clothes for the journey. Though I have not told him specifically my condition, I suspect he knows already. While I may not live to see the next year, I am at least reassured that I have found what I sought and can now return home in peace. It’s time for the journey home.

Love,

Alberto