Megan Quiroz, “Con Amor”
We stand in your doorstep’s dim light.
My mom takes photos of us, then I
muster a goodbye, a jumble of broken phrases,
“Te amo” is all you could barely understand.
You wave as we leave the driveway.
I glance at your friends as they rock
on their porches, muttering their past memories,
recounting their lives step-by-step.
I ask your daughter about your stories;
as she drives, she describes the lifetimes
you endured over your eighty-four years.
We pass the neighborhood’s gate.
When can I visit again? When can I struggle
to ask you more questions about abuelo, those
questions that always light up your eyes?
It doesn’t matter whether I understand,
I’d sit through every telenovela, every
black-and-white film, just to see your smile.
You tensed every time I asked mom to translate.
Road trips became reminders of countless times
my parents tried to teach me their language,
the countless times that I shrugged them off –
and every day, I regret it more.
I should’ve known that it would
form a barrier to force us apart.
The city’s welcome sign stands well behind me.
I hope from afar, you still feel the love
I can barely express in words.