Tayta
An ode to my late grandmother
Sometimes I talk to them,
the glowing figurines of the virgin, you remember Tayta,
the one you gave me, the night you dug through your cluttered closet,
tossing hats and scarves about the room
and onto your flower embroidered bed,
searching for something to give,
something to share,
something to protect me.
And then you smiled, as you pulled her out and handed her to me:
A neon green figurine, first one and then two.
Two glow-in-the-dark virgins, and although I don’t believe, not really,
and I don’t pray, not truly,
I loved those silly plastic virgins.
I was thirteen then and scared of the dark,
but they sat on my sticker laden night stand, lighting up my eyes,
like two queens of the night, keeping me safe, reminding me of you.
And so I kept them with me.
Now I’m thirty, and when a plane carried me from one coast to the other,
I kept them with me, because Tayta, you’re gone,
and all I have now are two plastic virgins, two neon figurines,
two queens of the night standing tall on my bookshelf,
reminding me of all the ways I’d never known you.
All the conversations I wished we could’ve had -
and so I keep them with me always,
and I tell them my secrets, because when the darkness creeps in,
I’ll need them, like I’ll always need you —
the dimple-cheeked woman who cheated at cards and then blamed me,
the brown eyed chef who force fed me chicken when I was full,
my beautiful grandmother in her apple tree orchard,
in the middle of a desert.
Thank you Tayta,
For sending me a light,
in the darkness of night.
~Feathertales
