Source

Herencia.

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I remember, when I was little, the yells of Tavito, the panadero
He did not actually make the bread; he just sold it
door-to-door on his huge bike.
The hot bread jumped in a big ice-cream-cone basket
like fish out of the water.
Every morning and afternoon the echoes of
“Eeeer pan. Er pan, er pan”
brought us the smell and texture of just-baked bread.
Tavito was noisy and funny.
He did not mind the jokes about his ugliness;
He laughed along.

There was also Poncio, the cuatro player.
He taught himself to play and sing.
He was a virtuoso, they said.
Until he opened someone’s belly
and went to jail.
He was never the same after prison,
I guess no one can be.
My mother never feared him, though,
and gave him food when he dropped by asking.

Then there was Polvorita, little gun powder.
The little English man, they called him,
even though he was from Trinidad.
I guess we never got the news about their independence.
It was enough that he spoke English
or we just called English anything that did not sound like Spanish.
He was like a seaman abandoned in the wrong port.
He got used to it, even though people didn’t understand him;
he did not understand people much either.
They said he was quite a dancer.
My mother never laughed at him.
She said he reminded her of her grandmother.

I never met my great grandmother.
I guess I would have liked her.
She never had a picture taken.
She never thought anyone would care.
She was quiet and unassuming.
I think she was hard-working like Tavito
Fearless and determined like Poncio;
maybe not as adventurous and lively as Polvorita.
but my mother says I inherited her hips.

My mother taught me to respect them all;
That helped me embrace
what I see of them in me.

Thanks for your visit. Happy New Year.

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