“Cien años” You would say In that Raspy, gruff Yet curiously gentle Voice “Voy a vivir cien años”
“Naci en el 1900” You’d tell me As together we sat In the patio filled with my Grandmother’s plants Playing Canicas, marbles that Lived in the bright Green MJB Coffee can
“Cien años” Square, determined jaw Resolute cara de nopal Face of un indo Beloved grandfather Affectionately called Papa
“Deje Mexico durante el revolucion” Sadness and shadows Flittering through your warm Brown eyes That must have seen So much Loss and pain Brave, brown man Strong and honest A working man
“Cien años” As we hoed the neat Rows of Corn, chiles, cilantro, tomate Bright red strawberries Freckled like me
“Conoci al Al Capone en Cheecago” Proud, smiling lightly As we picked the lemons, membrillo and laurel Destined for Grandma’s kitchen To become intoxicating smells Of a distant land. Later I learned of The stockyards, the stench Backbreaking work Racism and hatred He never once spoke of
“Cien años” Rolling massive flour tortillas In three quick thumps Of the Rolling pin Sas! Sas! Sas! And hands a perfectly round White moon To Grandma standing At the comal
“Somos Aztecas, indios” Crinkly eyes flashing Big dimple showing In your left cheek Same as mine Only deeper, much deeper The “X” marks the spot In a treasure map of a smile As we watch Los Voladores perform
“Cien años” As you sat at the table With the ever present Playing cards Shuffling with all the Finesse of a Vegas dealer And told me Of the first time you worked With your father At age 3 And earned Tres centavos One you bought an olla with Gave it and the remaining Centavos To your mother
“No cobramos por ayuda” Every time someone tried to pay For the sobadas Given By the healing hands Of a sobador, a huesero Those same hands That carved a cherry stone or a porous rock into the face of a monkey
“Cien años” Body racked with nausea Losing your thick black hair Fighting That asbestos-caused evil Cancer From working in that place That manufactured dishes Gave you a turkey a year, Franciscanware The apple pattern Desert Rose And the “Big C”
“Dios te lo pague, hija” Each time I did something For you Or my Grandma Out of love For no other reason But to lighten your load Do something for those That gave me so much
“Cien años” As you kissed the Forehead of your bride Still in love After decades of marriage Dancing with her To a bolero reminiscent of Times past
“Tengo que trabajar” After seven major surgeries The month after My grandmother’s death As we tried to get You to stop Working The hard muscle Of your indio labor Tucked under the wrinkled Mask of frailty
“Cien años” When the hospital Sent you home to die A thin man hiding his Pain Looking like A woodcut By Guadalupe Posada
“No tengo hambre” As I parade your favorite foods Chicharones en chile verde Frijoles del olla Burnt blackened tortillas I never understood Why you liked them that way Almost 86 On that April Fools Sunny day I called to see how you were And found you had gone To Mictlan "Fitting", I said As I held my children and cried Fitting for the practical joker You were
Today A great, great grandson Came backwards into this world Bearing your name – Salvador In the Aztec veintena of Tlaxochimaco The Offering of the Flowers
In his name Aidan Cesar Salvador Ehecatlpochtli I gift to you this Flower, this poem This bittersweet tear May you live on In our memories, our stories Our hearts and dreams Por mucho mas que “Cien años”
