In the heat and snow, suburbia lies,
wooden white chairs filled with youthful stories.
Their Abuelo sat at the head, quiet,
looking outside, but mind alone, afar.
One day he took his pills and did not wake,
seats changed, for now, their Tío takes the head.
My foundations are cracked and repainted.
Brown to white to sky blue, he covered me
with coats of color so no one noticed
the soft creaks of my glass, getting louder.
Abuela watches telenovelas,
making arepas on Sunday mornings.
But she has not left the house since he passed.
The stove is cold, no one knows how to
He is gone, and I am still here waiting
for him to sit back at the head watching
fútbol and Caso Cerrado beside
his wife, preparing meals, preparing laughs-
but never being able to prepare
them, prepare me, for the weight of
All people come and leave, that much I know,
The children sleep, the adults clean, I wait
for the next day, sunrise, warm espresso
pressed against my glass, listening to them
talk about their busy lives, believing they
will return to me, tired, but happy.
Now they sit in silence, not knowing how
to make the space feel less like loss and guilt.
Eat the sancocho, then, we cry