Monday, March 31, 2008


waves to me from an old picture.
Sitting at the dining room table
wearing his soft flannel jacket,
several layers underneath,
his back to the sunniest window.
He sips, savors a chufláy,
carefully prepared with 7-Up and singani,
a twist of limón.
Black-framed glasses
quickly removed for the camera,
held in his hand, out of sight.
Kind blue eyes –
turned gray and cloudy in old age.
Soft viejito hands
that lovingly rubbed my 5-year old feet
when they hurt,
and played piano delicately, sweetly.
I wish to hold them again.
In a dream he appeared to me,
with jet-black hair,
and said,
Hijita, ¡cuánto he esperado verte así!”
Abuelito –
years have passed
but I still hear your stories
like the time you caught a scorpion in your pant leg
and the one about how even the birds know enough
to carefully prepare a nest
before the arrival of their offspring.
I would love to sit with you again
at that table,
with our books, papers
colored pencils,
crucigramas and caramelos.
Mío, mío.

1 comment:

Cindy said...

Not only can I picture Abuelito "en el comedor" but I can smell Bolivia and feel his soft hands. Bravo!