Storytelling

It was a hot day,
Relentlessly hot.
One of those days when the sweat
Rolls down your arms and leaves
Little pools of deodorant and perfume particles.
Even here in the shade, there was little relief
From the overwhelming heat.

I shifted uncomfortably in my cheap plastic chair.
Grandma and Grandpa were going to be late-
They were always late.

A few moments later,
Just as a short, Cuban woman was mounting the stage,
They slid into the remaining chairs
On the outskirts of the tent.
I was right.

My grandma waved her arms
In my general direction.
I nodded-
Then looked back to the Cuban woman.

She was telling a story-
It was about her grandma.
“But Abuleta, I can’t make it.
At least not like you, please.”

I nodded-
Understanding
That mixture of love and frustration and admiration,
As the teller describes her complex relationship with
Her grandmother.

They are making an old family recipe.
Together they stir, and mix;
Adding a little here, adding a little there.

Finally the hot, creamy mixture touches my lips,
Burning them,
But not too much.
The sweet, nutty mixture with its hints of cinnamon,
Slowly travel down my throat until
It is interrupted by applause.

I blink.
And blink again.

Everyone around me is standing, clapping, furiously.
Slowly my knees straighten the rest of me
As my hands start to move.

I look over, catching my grandma’s eye,
And she smiles.