with humidity-ridden relentless curls
popping out all over my head,
a blue bathing suit and haphazard sarong,
i stand ashamed in the crowded elevator

they wait for me below,
our words carved in the sand
inside a heart as haphazard as me

we stop on level ten,
and in the moment of waiting
for silver doors to re-close,
i see his whole family:
girls dressed to the nines
in their Sunday best,
older mother in wheelchair,
he in tie and collared shirt

it is too crowded for them,
but not for the words he hands
over to me like pieces of gold

bonito, he begins,
and looking down at my Crocs,
i’m sure he is mistaken.

que has hecho, es muy bonito,
(the ever-formal verbiage of Castellano)
and in that singular moment
between when the doors
have opened and closed,
i manage a mental translation,
remember our words in the sand
(WE MISS YOU),
and hand him back a timid Gracias

what you have made,
he tells me,
is very beautiful.
and i can’t decide
if it is his words or mine
that mean more to me