at the surface

Today, one of my friends lost her father to a heart attack. I lost my father 2 years ago this March and her loss made mine fresh and new again. Selfish? Maybe. But, I started thinking about how devastated I was when my grandfather passed away and how I didn't think it was possible to feel that kind of pain again. But, of course, that wasn't true. My grandfather was an awesome, awesome man. There wasn't a thing he could do wrong in my eyes. I loved him as much as my own father and here I sit missing Mi Abuelo, Mi Papi. Wanting just one more day to hug on them and let them know how much they were (are) adored. I wrote this poem when Abuelo died. Sometimes I read it when the emotions are at the surface.

The mug
forces me to shut my eyes
to the truth it holds.
Somewhere deep in the Bible,
it tells of having faith
in him
who hung on a tree.
Surely they didn't mean,
My Savior,
Abuelo.
He too hung from a tree.
Until, of course
they came and cut him down.

Hard to distort that reality.

How depressed the roses looked
disconnected from their home.

Ay Negra, que memoria tienes!
What a memory you have!

Cafe con leche
un pedazo de pan con mantequilla,
dipped into the life-giving blend.
"Ewww, Abuelo, Not that way!"

Light up a Marlboro
Drink up all the Libby's,
sell him a newspaper
on the porch
as the day ends.

I had said a prayer
that my children
would be so lucky.

He taught me to drive
in circles,
while he roared with laughter.
Held my hand
to cross the street,
to get to,
Granada's Family Market
Fruit Flavored Mentos
Pink, Yellow, White, Green.
All gone by the time
we get home.

Home isn't where I live,
but wherever Abuelo is.

In 7th Grade,
Bryan told me
that you can tell
what someone's house
smells like
by the odor
of their hair.

Mine smells like Abuelo.
Freshly banado
Old Spice and Expresso.

Sing to me, Grandpa.
Haunting melodies
of a life once lived.

Faded memories
of an Asturian sunset.
And of the rain
falling mainly in the plains

A mi me da igual.

He won't eat corn
you know.
Because that's what
they fed the pigs
where he comes from.

That week,
he told a stranger
that we were all
coming home soon.
A Family Reunion.
I touched his hand.
Cold, clammy, crappy
hand.

I don't have the strength
to cross the street anymore,
Abuelo.

Oh, that I could take
all that brings life and make everything right.

The checkered mug
I'd always coveted
is mine now,
If I want it.
It has to sit
on the rattan tray,
on the microwave,
on the counter,
next to the sink.
It has to.

Where is the hand that will
lead me home?
Seems too much maintenance
to uphold the legacy
of a stupid old mug.