Page 52 - My Creative Writing Portfolio

52

I met a young woman once,
Barely twenty-eight,
Pregnant, yet moving tirelessly
Through the machinery of migration.
She had finished her Bachelor in accountancy,
Yet volunteered in a private college
Without pay—
Her husband, with an MBA from the UK,
Worked long hours caring for the elderly.
Their degrees, their education,
Seemed meaningless here.
They came from a comfortable family in Chitwan, Nepal,
But comfort offered little shelter
From this relentless race.

They moved again,
To Tasmania this time,
Chasing a chance at permanent residency.
I watched her, in the advanced stage of pregnancy,
Packing, relocating,
Stepping into uncertainty
To secure a future
That might never guarantee safety, stability, or recognition.

And yet, she went on.
They all go on.

These butterflies—
from Sydney to Tasmania,
from city to regional town,
working odd hours, menial jobs,
Cleaning streets, caring for the elderly,
Supporting families far away,
Paying agents, colleges, health insurance, immigration fees—
Still flutter, still race,
Still dream.

The modern world shines,
Its light bright and seductive,
And the butterflies make it brighter,
Even as they lose themselves.

In their toil,
they become the precariat—
unseen, uncelebrated,
but essential to the life of the city.