La Casa De Mi Abuela

Visits to my grandma
I liked them in the morning
With that modest charm
Of a family lunch
With a sun always peeking
In the mouth of the windows
Peeling off year after year
The walls of the lot.

And in a corner of the garden
Where gladiolas grow
Buttons and hours ripen slowly
The walls and their corners
Are dressed in moss and other things
Things for which time
Passes, but lingers.

In my grandma's house
The furniture smells of yesteryear
Because as far back as I can remember
The years have sat there
and my grandma has seen them
like I never did
occupying places
that the family left.

In my grandma's house
Portraits mingle
They gossip and whisper on the walls
I always find a familiar face
In a painting of a relative
Young faces of old
Who were left behind.
When the morning ends
And in my grandma's house
The evening air
Brings the patio through the door
And in a corner of the garden
Where gladiolas grow
Buttons and hours ripen gently.

I found myself in my grandma's house
Since I was a child, the habit
Of admiring the belongings
That belonged to the family
Hats, dolls, clothes
Letters, closed drawers
Each object is a treasure
Of forgotten secrets.

Her wardrobe is full
Of unanswered questions
Clean and folded clothes
Photos, keys, and memories
Her vanity is full
Of answers without questions
And a mirror that shows her
What time held for her.

The afternoon tastes of nostalgia
In my grandma's house
When she irons and I ask
When she cries and remembers
And in a corner, gladiolas grow
Buttons and hours ripen sweetly.

When the sun is setting
The late light leans
Shadows lengthen so much
That they climb the wall
Each object creates a stain
That crosses the old house
Granting to what it touches
The thirst-inducing anxiety.

In my grandma's house
There is a guest room
To give to the one who has arrived
A place where they can be
Where every night comes
That silence that inhabits it
Because it's been a long time since anyone
Has stayed to rest.

When night falls
And in my grandma's house
The windows half-close
And the noises are revealed
All in murmuring shadows
And creaks of wood
That never settled
And have never been still.

As the hours pass
Even the wind is sorry
To calm down on this night
Of strange restlessness
Without feeling the anticipation
It was in my grandma's house
Where the charm moves
That brings us darkness.

From the garden of the house
I see its silent mass
Hidden in its corridors
Shadows coming and going
I see people who inhabited it
I see myself, when I was a child
Everything left leaving
My grandma and those who are not here.

I see her tenderness as a child
All that love she spread
With the patience and sweetness
That a sower cultivates
And in her garden corner
Where gladiolas grow
Buttons and hours ripen late.

Today the house has a story
That runs through the corridors
That speaks what it's thinking
And forgot its age
And thinking about it, I wonder
I wonder and repeat to myself
How to enter this house
if one day my grandma is not here?