FREEDOM DREAMING
By Gabrierla León
My abuelita was the beacon in the night:
The rod, the sword, the guide.
When we learned to walk,
She held our hands to guide us.
When we ran, laughed, tumbled, scraped Came back bloodier than we were:
There were no hugs to greet us
But always plenty of food
And tortillas form her hand.
When her children had grown up,
Y la guerra, la pobreza, la tristeza
Had burrowed where she couldn’t go
She opened up the doors into your home
And took us, little ones still so full of life,
Like treasures from a shipwreck in the
dark. We came and watched and waited
Like traced out paintings,
Not quite fitting not yet finished,
But with her stern and sturdy hand we never drifted far.
Now her little ones have grown:
At home in her back garden,
In hostile, foreign lands,
Through heartbreak and divorce
With diplomas and promotions;
With her sacrifice to teach them.
With her jokes and her devotion,
Sus regaños y su enojo
The rod, the sword, the guide.
