i can write a ten-minute poem
fingertips touched
with years of hesitation
i am not accustomed
to holding these reins
lost in college years
i never took advantage of
i drive the carriage now
as we gallop across new lands
their realism lit up with logic
while at home we count coins
they know me well
how cautiously i shake these reins
like kings of the same root
our horses will fly us home
it looks like firelight
i know it’s only light above the stove
tile backing
granite countertops and all
but if you’re walking past
and you imagine you’re someone else
you might think for a moment
that there’s a fire in your kitchen
i’ve always imagined
a room like that
lit up by the warmth
only brought forward
by flames licking wood
it crackles here
somewhere hidden
as i watch her smile over miles
his smart remarks
as kind as the tomorrow
he places like daily gems
for all to sift through
i could count the days for her
she calls me on it
quicker than a Cheshire cat
and it’s the UK pounds
that make our words
you see it don’t you?
have i painted for you
the picture of my perfect fire?
the subtle light
yellow and warm
its heat moving across continents
weaving a smokeless room
into the heat of our hearts
church bells ring the hour
the sun brought my afternoon
a holiday, life
before a long break
upon returning after
cheek-kissing culture
my cup is now full
once more i enjoy palm trees
their path leads to peace
we tip the shot glass
twenty years in the making
cheers to a fresh start
Isabella
nose buried in Kindle,
a version different than our own,
the words like gold
still the same
as you excitedly spill
Harry’s latest endeavors
you climb like a monkey
over nets, up walls, on mountaintops
and keep small secrets
for fear of losing out
just shy of ten,
you stand past my shoulder now–
i’m afraid of double digits
as you’re buried in books
and beginning to abandon dolls
i suppose
we all must grow–
you in your wild, monkey-like way,
me, in my motherly view of your milestones
Mythili
the center of imaginary play,
instrumental in all
Monster High shenanigans,
the perfect voice-over
of coming of age
the center of language,
you pick up British accents
and repeat back
in perfect translation
all the Castellano words
the center of three girls,
just past eight,
your eyes light up our photos,
connect either sister like glue–
so much more than a middle child
Riona
with your ever-small defiance,
you fight for seats next to me,
won’t give in to open-minded eating,
and still suck your thumb
five months beyond
your six-year mark,
you patiently wait
for your closest friends
(sisters of course)
to guide you through the
maze of Spain
all these years later,
calm as can be,
your ever-small defiance
peaks in surprises,
the small gifts of perfect grades,
an ever-pleasant smile,
and our best example of
unequivocal love
It was a year ago, at the Día de los Reyes fiesta, that I swallowed three glasses of wine, pulled out the plastic baby Jesus from the Roscón de Reyes cake, and made my announcement to ears who would never be ready to hear such a thing.
So tumbled down the following months of my life, steps leading to a new view of the world, first from their eyes, a new set implanted in my own silly head, and now from a small apartment in Spain, where I have pulled out, year two, the King of all Kings.
He stands godlike amidst the Catholic words, his luck ready to carry my family on my back into a new year of discovery.
Yes, I said it like that. How I carry them, how you know I do, yet despise me for it in the same downtrodden tone that is washed away by the admiring and adoring words of those who know me best.
This is MY king. There is no chance, even in the small circle for which this cake is cut in this year now passed, that anyone else was meant to carry it like a charm of fruition at the bottom of purse number four. It was in my reluctant-to-indulge piece, la crema spilling out the sides and pushing his beauty into my lips, wish and resolution now granted, for another year that I know will change my life.
You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to stand in front of duck-pond-soaked daughter for Life Moment Number 23 in Week Two of National Lampoon’s European Vacation, cousin in tow to witness it all, and not be able to say all that you need to say to the man who means more to you than anything fathomable in this or any life.
There was no Plaza de España. There was no beauty of a park unlike any other park. No romance amongst horse-drawn carriages. No tiles that could capture the intensity of my life upside down backwards and incomplete if for one moment he is angry with me.
The reason you can’t understand it is because you don’t have it. You don’t have him day to day, the most amazing human being placed upon this Earth. You couldn’t possibly understand the weight of his anger, so uncommon that the sky could fill with dark rainclouds in the same moment that you stare at the fishermen leisurely filling their nets in the sparkling sunlit river with color-coded stone houses mocking European beauty into your blood.
It was a year ago, at the Día de los Reyes fiesta, when that Fear of Losing Him broke me down to the core for the first time in fourteen years.
He is all mine now, standing like a perfect statue on top of Spanish words. He returned, peppermint bark, Spaniards, Heidetoes, and Spain, into my arms, into the warmth that I could only receive after our heated argument in that freezing cold Sevilla apartment. He is mine, this King of all Kings, and I will carry his luck on my back as we make our way into a new year, a new life like you’ve never imagined.
Here I am again. Nit picking away. Is this a sign of the times, a symbol of my year in Spain, or just another hassle like everything else?
I still haven’t been paid of course. It’s been three months. Not to mention the six months of hell and paperwork and thousands of dollars spent prior to that.
I just need to vent tonight. Bruce and I have spent ten hours today combing through all three girls’ hair, and my own, and finding more lice and nits than you could ever imagine. Add that to the laundry that we’re barely catching up on due to winter weather conditions, no dryer, and a north facing apartment. In fact, we can’t even run our washer and another appliance at the same time without the power going out. Truth is, we cannot run ANY two appliances without the power going out. Who came up with this back-asswards system, where the electric bill costs 150€ a month yet doesn’t consistently PROVIDE ELECTRICITY? I know I’m not the only one with this problem. I’ve heard others discuss similar problems, and on our travels we also ran into electrical snafus.
Add that to the serious lack of WiFi on the Iberian Peninsula, and I’m about done. The Internet rarely works well anywhere. We pay an exorbitant amount of money for ADSL and a phone with a data plan, and it’s designed for someone who doesn’t seem to actually USE it. Bruce tried to PAY for more megabytes today, and the web site locked him out!
The schools… I’ve complained a bit, but let me add on. My middle child has a gift. Not all of us are born with it, but out of my entire household, she is the one who truly has the gift of language. She has picked up more Castellano than the rest of us combined. Yet, the day before Christmas break, she came home with a report card with a failing grade in science, the equivalent to a D in Lengua Castellano, and a D in art (have I mentioned that she’s an artist and actually plans to make a career out of this?)? Her report card came with a note stating that she was pulled out for support for science and lengua. Upon further review (her interpretation), she is pulled out of class for those subjects, then put back in the classes (that she has then missed!) to take the exams, which are of course all rote memorization of facts. Not only that, but I didn’t receive any communication from the school, prior to the report card at the end of the term, either about the support classes or her FAILING.
I could pinpoint many reasons why this country is failing. But I think I’ll stick with lack of lice checks/healthcare, high bills that cover nothing, and schools that overlook gifts for rote memorization of facts, leading to a country filled with people who cannot provide basic services such as electricity, WiFi, or a paycheck.
hilltop Alhambra
generations of dreams built
Islam, Catholic rule
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