One day, my sister and I were cleaning together by going through old stacks of newspapers and mail. My sister pulled out a bright yellow folder and opened it to figure out if it should be thrown away. There were multiple papers all written in Bangla, so she and I, who don’t know how to read our native tongue, had no way of knowing what to do. So we turned to our mom. 
Her face immediately morphed into different emotions as she explained the story behind them. My dad arrived in NY before my mom did. During that time apart, my mom would send my dad letters, asking questions about America, wondering how he was doing, and talking about their family back in their old home in Bangladesh. My dad would save all of these letters inside this folder. 
Hearing all of this made me realize how much these letters meant to my mom. They were a possession that literally traced back their journeys to a new world where they had no one but each other to rely on. There was my dad’s first letter to her, complaining about the cold. There were printed photographs of their wedding. There was a letter from my dad telling my mom about a restaurant job he secured overlooking the upper bay. The folder’s legacy never stopped at my parents either. I saw a Mother’s Day card I made, a birthday drawing for my dad, and a letter of appreciation from my brother. The folder started as a symbol of immigration for my parents and is now a reminder of how far their family had come. 

– MC

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant