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"Manuelita,
Mi Querida Abuelita " by
Ralph F. Lopez-Urbina aki Rafas c/s
More
than anything else, it was your eyes
that dazzled and captivated my heart,
their soft gaze fluttering inside my chest
the moment you entered my stream of thought.
Cozying up to your guileless warmth
across a lifetime of sweet-and-sour memories
brings fresh luster to the timeless cliché:
The eyes are the windows of the soul.
Your
image rouses a thousand Monarchs
huddled in the cocoon of my corazon;
they burst forth from portals of my being,
and dance to taconazos of my heart;
twittering, buckling and gliding
to a festive jarabe of kinship,
as you ran a comb past my unruly hair
al salir a nuestra parranda del dia . . .
The
smile reclining on your careworn face,
displaying an ironic countenance
for the swell of precious nectar crystals
gleaming in the trove of your easy eyes.
Ah, those awesome eyes, Manuelita,
mi querida abuelita:
Parting
their veil with an inquiring eye,
I entered a world of saints and angels,
imbibing with a child’s unspoiled relish
your nourishing milk of human kindness.
And
more marvelous yet than all that,
I danced caracoles ‘neath the haven
of their warm and wise and vigilant beams,
while I but laughed and played the day away
and when the dark clouds rolled in, Manuelita
mi querida abuelita:
I
saw the storm raging in your liquid eyes,
and nuzzled close to mine their instructive gaze
then sat slack-jawed before the rumbling gloom,
as magic culebras wooed the mother earth.
And
gazing deeper still, I waded, splashed,
and tumbled in a tsunami of love
that rose from the lush sea of your eyes
and beached itself on the shore of my heart.
Your
body’s long at rest, Manuelita,
mi querida abuelita:
Yet
your Mona Lisa eyes flirt with me
from the canvas of my own longing;
my mind a museum of you and I
and the parrandas of Sundays ago.
Y
tengo el museo circuita
—just a heartbeat away my beloved,
and I visit you daily, Manuelita,
con cada latido de mi corazon.
And
still I long for you, Manuelita,
mi querida abuelita:
Daily
I hunger for your comida:
tus frijoles y pollo en mole,
your sabroso caldo de fideo,
the tacos I never got my fill of.
I
miss the pat-pat-pat cadenzas
of your hands shaping a ball of masa
into a giant Sonora tortilla;
how your cuisine spices my reverie.
I
savor the taste of your Lenten meals:
your lentejas, tortas de camaron,
nopalitos en chile colorado,
your mouth-watering arroz con leche,
and for your merry Christmas feast: tamales.
The ancient atole you brewed so well;
bunuelos bathed in miel de panocha;
and ronpope’s bliss for comic relief.
I
inhale aromas of your cuisine
and surf on great cenas of days gone by,
the memorias scented by olores
that sailed the seven rooms of our casita;
my
nose flaring wide to savor the image,
while my taste buds bathed in expectant joy;
the scented memory raising a growl
from the Grizzly ensconced in my belly.
And
more, much more Manuelita,
mi querida abuelita:
I
admire you as much for your courage
as for your just stand against villainy
and for your humble dissimilation
in parrying the cruel stabs of life.
I
admire the elegance of your Faith
—your simple yet profound embrace
of Lord Jesus as your king and savior
and your faithful imitation of his life.
I
admire your kind and generous heart
and the tender sympathy and good will
by which you attended to human need:
the love you shared with the outcast poor.
I
admire your kind and forgiving heart
or the easy manner you employed
in reaching out to the cynics and thieves
even while you suffered their abuse.
I
admire you for your ready compassion
toward folks overcome by sickness and pain:
dying, bedridden and forgotten souls,
even as you coped with your own malaise.
And
in sum of it all, Manuelita,
I admire your commitment to ideals,
for scraping closer to human utopia
than anyone I know or have yet to know.
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