pa’ mi mami
.
The first guests, my godparents,
turn the corner to begin their walk
down the driveway,
.
(50 feet of uneven pavement
framed between
my parents’ home and
the Chinese neighbors
who’ve thrown away
a grocery bag of garbage
every week for 20 years)
.
… a ceremonial walkway for the invited
.
the gate left open to let what used to be
a flood of relatives through …
but we are older
and have lost a few to the earth
and others to unresolved conflicts
.
(Even today, on my mother’s 60th
a new injury will be born
when my middle brother
fails to celebrate with us)
.
I could see now, clearly what we had become
as my father greeted his compadre and comadre,
my youngest brother,
(a suit wearing executive during the week,
in his weekend barrio wear;
pressed khakis & ultra-brite white tee)
pulling green plastic chairs for them to sit.
.
My godparents are frail,
like half the crowd who will come today,
guests with measured steps and canes,
and more still that come locked in arms
with the same person I remember them with
from my childhood.
.
The music, Ecuadorian ballads mixed with
Puerto Rican merengue and other
tunes from the roots of our America
.
(that faraway south
painted in greens and grays and decorated
with eyes and teeth that strike out
like stars in the night sky; smiling mouths
stuffed with bacalao and ceviche
and full of laughter and Spanish)
.
Here too, the food is ready,
paid for by my brother,
prepared by memories of my mother and
abuela in the kitchens of the past;
my hands mix the red cebollas
and lemons and limes and
cilantro into nearly everything.
Everywhere there is pepper and garlic
mixing into the smoke dancing
from the three grills we have going.
.
We brought together again,
those people we only see at funerals now,
to celebrate what they had started
before we existed;
leaving their childhoods behind
they ventured out of sand dunes
and into snowstorms, unheralded;
they traded their tiempo, every last
minute measured by train tokens
and time cards they punched;
measured by checks that paid them
only for their output and
never considered what they were
really giving back to the dream
that is this America.
.
They sat around now
frail, but victorious,
eating gumbo and platanos,
arroz y gandules, barbecued chicken
camarones, hot dogs and
hamburgers, topped with
ketchup and salsa picante, listening
to the sounds of the past
exploding today in celebraccion.
.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.
words with no names 