They made me go to see her
this venerable woman, no kin to me.
She commanded my attention,
her hair white, and brown skin wrinkly.
Her piercing eyes looked through,
to pasts and potential futures.
Her tongue dissected me like a scalpel,
then fitted me together just like sutures.
“Time is so very precious,” she said,
“and is never to be wasted.”
She poured Bustelo into scalded milk,
savory as her wisdom, it tasted.
I sat with her all that afternoon
as she embroidered a Bride to Be’s gown.
She shared her life experiences
appliquéing carefully as she looked down.
By day’s end she was my Abuela.
Me, this know-it-all Teen,
who learned how little I actually knew,
from all the wonders she had seen.
I hugged her tightly, said goodbye,
this tiny woman who came to my waist.
I can still see her soul deep eyes,
her wise and kindly face.
M. Zane McClellan
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