I had a dream last night where I stood in the center of a tornado. And although it sounds chaotic because I was in the middle there was the calmness of being in the eye. I could see things, random objects, a tree, a red truck, birds, swirling around me floating and I wanted to reach out touch the quickly spinning air because it seemed like a wall. A moving living wall. Instead of feeling a panic, I felt the same calmness of the eye. Calmness and a curiosity. I stood right arm outstretched fingers seconds away from the swirling air, then I woke up.
Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacÃan. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
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