|
|
| |
|
|
| |
Reader. Gamer. Binary Mystic.
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
I want to write something beautiful about Mima. I want my words to be a testament to the manner in which she lived her life and to the manner that she loved her family. I don't think that a biography would be appropriate. A biography is merely the outer shell of a person; it is a verbal simulacrum of the casing. And while we can learn much about a person by reading the actions they've taken during their life, we can never really know what happened inside. I want to capture those fusion reactions that empowered her soul, that lead her to love a man, that lead to stand by his side during hard times, and, ultimately, that lead her to hold her family together after he had passed. It occurs to me that maybe I should be writing about Mima and Pipo. But the problem is that most of my memory orbits her light. Pipo will always be the archetypical figure that exited early in my life but always remained in my heart as I strove to be as good a man as he was (a goal that I will never achieve). So I'll focus on Mima; Mima the grandmother, the matriarch, and the palette of all the words that I use to construct my concept of family.
I.
Frituritas frying
and i'm in the music room
that used to be a car port
that while under construction
gave me un aire malo
left me feverish and blind for a day.
Yuca y malanga batter
placed in Mazola
heat increasing exponentially
and Mima doesn't even break a sweat.
I remember Mima with Pipo
and Mima after he passed on
just as I divide my life:
Mima in my life
and my life without her.
I used to sit in this music room
and read
because while my family played intruments
I played with words.
Mima also didn't play either
she cooked
and what culunary melodies
she would make with her sazones
and caldos.
I would lie on the old couch
my uncles and aunts playing music
Mima cooking away
and me and my books
lost in other worlds and other times.
And when I was away
inside myself
only Mima could call me back
with a kiss on my forehead
and a steaming plate whose aroma
continuously rises to heaven.
1:01 PM
|
|
| |
|
|
|
