I stood in the back of the rented VFW hall, holding my transit card with exactly one ride left.
My brother was the oldest person in the row of new citizens. He turned sixty-six last month.
The layover in Memphis had been six hours because of ice. I almost turned back.
But I saw his hands trembling as he raised them for the oath. Those hands rebuilt my bicycle when I was twelve.
After, we walked to the subway. He said, 'I wanted Momma's name on the paper.'
He meant the citizenship certificate. She'd been gone seven years now.
I swiped my card with one ride left. It let him through the turnstile first.
That was the last ride on that card. I didn't need another.