Last year, when Grandpa died, Dad couldn’t go for the funeral in Africa. Mom said this was because they were out of status waiting for their green cards. If Dad went to Africa, he wouldn’t be able to come back to America. Dad cried. Mom said people didn’t know the sacrifices we had to make. Then on the day of Grandpa’s funeral, a white pigeon landed on our roof. She said that it was Grandpa coming to tell Dad his spirit was at peace, which made me scared, so I sneaked into their bed again, in the middle of the night, even though I really didn’t believe that pigeon on the roof was my Grandpa.
“How I wish we can get back to Mississippi before six,” I say.
“What’s on at six?” Dad asks. “Some Disney rubbish?”
“Never mind,” I say.
If I tell him, he’ll think I’m selfish. I want to get back to Mississippi in time for soccer. Already he is watching the elections on CNN.
Green is for my parent’s passports. Green white green is the color of the flag of their country in Africa, Nigeria.