My husband’s U.S. permanent residency, or green card arrived in the mail late Monday night.
The envelope was a white United States Postal Service priority mailing envelope, with a PO Box from Mesquite, Texas in the return address window.
If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought that it was a credit card promotion.
Picasso’s on a temporary gig right now in another state. I will send him the card asap. We are happy, most definitely.
But this delay also gives me the opportunity to have a minute alone with it and feel all that I need to feel.
I run my fingers over the seals and raised areas, tip it so that it catches the light and reveals other marks. The top back part of the card is mirrored and very high- tech looking.
I almost expect to push a button and watch the whole damn thing light up and start to play, “The Star Spangled Banner” like a hokey birthday card.
Picasso’s picture is prominently displayed, in black and white, giving it the feel of one of those old-school ID photos. This old-school feel stands out against all the high-techness surrounding it.
There are things that I want to say to this card.
Starting with, “What the hell took you so long?”
In the background, there’s a close up image of the Statue of Liberty’s face, with the beginning of her right arm that holds her torch.
A part of me this morning wants that background image to be replaced with a close up image of my face, my head down, my right fist raised defiantly to the sky.