Bendición, Abuelito

Abuelito,

bendición.

I hope you're proud of me.

Recuerdo todo lo que aprendí de ti.

I know how to use un machete y hacer café pa' la visita.

Abuelito, you used to say:

"Donde comen dos, comen tres" and my house never fails to be a bountiful reminder of it.

Every time I see a fellow Latino

lock eyes with me in a cry for help,

I hear your sweet, affirming call:

"Mija, ven acá".

Me acuerdo del vestido que me compraste

for my first honor roll.

And when you proudly told el verdurero:

"Ella está estudiando pa' ser maestra",

with your eyes shining like every wishing star I look for every night.

Abuelito,

I can still hear your cuatro playing

"Agua del cielo cayó",

I can still hear you sorbing from el coco de café en las mañanas,

I can vaguely hear your loving "Dios te bendiga".

It's been a long way, abuelito,

and they still call me "La nena",

"La nieta de Don Leo",

"La regalona".

I'll miss you at my graduation.

But I know that when you bought

mis primeras galletas de chocolate,

when you trusted me to drive you a las citas médicas,

cuando me ayudaste a comprar my second car, y me construiste my first computer desk,

when you made me a petaca to teach my students about nuestra herencia jíbara,

here is exactly where you wanted me to be.

Abuelito,

yo no conocí el rechazo por mi pelo, mi estatura ni por no tener papá because your love was a cradling hamaca.

Sometimes I'm afraid people won't see me con los mismos ojos de amor que tú.

That they won't offer a forgiving hug saying:

"Mija, eso no es na".

Y por eso, Abuelito, te pido

that you always walk along my side.

Keep whispering esas historias

de cuando cortabas caña and bought groceries for a quarter.

Those stories de cuando migraste in the 50s as a seasonal worker

pa' recoger habichuelas y estroberis.

Remind me, abuelito,

que si Dios quiere

nuestra historia will continue to write itself.

Bendición, Abuelito.