The House

GRANDMOTHER”S HOUSE

It is still there

standing among old trees

under the shadow of a volcano

high walls painted yellow

two gardens in back still divide

her world, old and beautiful

and the modern, full of goodbye

made of bitterness,

her flowers still grow, her perfume endures

even under new ownership.

In dreams that come often

I go back in time, in memory

walking up to that glass front door

tropical rain falling outside

I knock, the maid lets me in

unrecognized, unseen

I am a ghost in winter clothes.

The long oak table is set for lunch

with grandma’s favorite yellow table cloth,

there’s roasted chicken, pupusas, guava juice

cake, fried plantains with beans and cream

fruit, and cafe con leche, all’s ready

eight open places with room

for three more.

Somewhere in one of six bedrooms

I hear grandma call out that lunch is ready

her voice sweetly full of depth, full of death

she is faith alive, voice of prayers lived out

It is an echo

it is a raindrop

it is afternoon tea

it is a moment

it is a ribbon floating downstream.