Sometimes I can still hear
the sounds
of yesteryears-
my family's voices,
their conversations reverberate.
And I recall
my father's and uncle's
ardent discussions
of the revolution
years after the fact,
the play and replay of
1956-
during so many
family gatherings.
And I remember too,
broken English-
when speaking to Americans
and I, the embarrassed child
with parents who sounded
like Bela Lugosi and Zsa Zsa Gabor.
But there are other
memories
that pull me back,
colorful bursts
of flowers
intricately embroidered
on tablecloths and blouses-
poppies and daisies,
bluebells and strands of red
banana peppers.
And lacy doilies
crotcheted by my grandmother-
adorning everything,
from the armrests of sofas
to the underside of porcelain figurines
and ashtrays,
these doilies that I've kept
now yellowed with time
but still reminiscent of
gossamer snowflakes or spiderwebs.
And then the delights
of the kitchen those tastes and smells
that linger...
Oh, how my grandmother, mother and aunt
could produce magic
in a hearty bowl of gulyas,
spicy chicken paprikas
and sweet crepes called palacsinta-
sprinkled with sugar
and filled with apricot jelly.
But all of this was yesterday
and yesterday
was carried away as if by the tune
of a gypsy's violin
wildly crescendoing one moment-
only to ebb and fade
at the next...
So too, memories
of my childhood fade...
And now,
into the new millennium
it is salsa, merengue and cumbia
that quickens my blood.
Now, I am lulled to sleep
by Los Temerarios as they croon,
" Te quiero mi amor, Te necesito."
And today,
I watch my husband prepare
Chilis Poblanos
carefully stuffing them
with crumbly goat's cheese
ever so carefully- so as not to
rupture the pepper's delicate skin
frail and charred from stovetop grilling.
And I watch in wonder
as he garnishes his creation
with pomegranate seeds-
these seeds like memories,
hard kernels encased in a sweet,
succulent membrane,
like blood red drops
- the blood of heritage.