I remember you grandmother. I knew about books and art. I was small and left-handed. Speaking another language that wasn’t mine. Learning about big cities, buildings, and forms. But life took me there to your home, and I played old records from your mom. You showed me the ocean and the truth of life. That ride was so fast, and I looked at the palms on the highway. I felt the sand and saw animals I had never seen before. I was growing. You were my blood, living mother, too. I will come back and embrace you with flowers and poems. You are alive for me, in the waves and the sunset. The smell of roses on your dress and the rings that always were shining in your hands. Simplicity. Dressed in black.

2016