La Abuela
My back finds relief in her solid trunk
Her leaves like a lock of hair, spilling over my shoulder
Her body softens the sun
Throwing dappled shapes across my lap
I didn’t ask her permission, I never do. I wonder if she minds.
Like the ancient withered old stump behind the junior playground
I wonder if she minded my six year old games
Crouched over her with a twig, mixing potions in her deep crevasse
A pinch of dirt, a handful of leaves, whisked together with the imagination of childhood solitude.
Somehow I don’t think she did, for I still approached her with awe.
We whispered the same language. With the patience of a grandmother, she made my game hers.
