My father is gentle,
I can see the softness that raised him. His love as easy as the sun kissing us goodbye every night. His hands, carved ready to receive life. His roots, my grandmothers belly. He never forgets the hips that welcomed him into this world. We all begin in a women and he so graciously raised more than one.
My grandmother, came to me in a dream. Her words were serenading me into peace. We look nothing alike but we move like twins. Her scent one of my favorite fragrances. Her hands my second home. Her voice filling a whole room. She was mix of rough and soft. A combination of love and water. She reminds me that a woman can change a life. She tells me I’m an army of them.
You remind me of the men in my family
The way you break only in the presence of God.
How you hide your pain so deep inside
Words crawling out your throat
But you cage them in silence.
-A man’s pride
I am your daughter
growing wild, and high.
I am your legacy, the wounds of our ancestors, your struggle in my bones.
The tears you cried, the nights you worked, the racism that hurt you, the language you struggle to speak, the dreams you gave to me.
I am your daughter
growing so high, it was you that taught me how to rise.
Your legacy–“vale la pena.”
-words to my father
My father calls and doesn’t know what to say. I wish I could express to him everything in my mind but I only know how to say it one way. The way that he knows very little of, the language of his bosses, of a country that doesn’t want him, of a language that is seen as superior to his. When I speak he listens; in his mind imagining what crazy idea I have contrived. Had I grown up in the land we call home, my father and I would bond over the words that sway off our tongues to a song we both know. My father calls and I speak what we both know. We no longer feel far away and he doesn’t have to feel embarssed over what he cannot say.