* Sort of a poem, but definitely a feeling.
When I eat pineapples,
I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children.
The first time I slipped a chunk in my mouth,
the mother of my father cooked ham, another first for me.
I was nine, on vacation alone with my dad,
staying at my grandmother's, sleeping with her in her bed.
I remember lying ridged next to her, making sure
we did not touch. I was scared that I would squish her,
already taller than her by nine.
I knew she tried her best during that trip.
My only other vivid memories of her before
that were at the age of four
and surprisingly ages three and two.
My grandparents moved to Florida when I was about four,
the only time I rode on a train
that wasn't a dirty New York City Subway.
I know that I must have seen her sometime
between the ages of four and nine,
but I was homesick for a mother back home
with the same name while wondering how a father,
who was traveling right next to me, knew nothing
about me.
I knew her cooking the ham was her way
of trying to make me comfortable, of getting me
to eat. I do not like most fruits and veggies,
but I did fall in love with that ham soaked in pineapple juice.
I wonder if she would be happy to know
that I've been searching for someone who knew
how to make the perfect ham. There's been close
imitations, but that's all they were.
Nothing can replace the warmth of her hands
serving that pink glob of goodness. Or knowing
that at least she was beside me at night,
no matter how silent I was during that trip.
Those were the last of the memories.
I can't even remember if I saw her once after
in New York. All I remember is her voice over
the phone, especially after her stroke.
It was like listening to myself at three or four
before she moved, in a basement apartment
in East New York, Brooklyn.
"How are you? I miss you. I love you."
I know my parents must have taught me
how to say that to her when I was little.
Now that's all she was able to say to me
after I said them to her over 10 years later.
These last memories we had of each other,
imagining faces we once knew,
but certainly have changed over a phone line
were now only capable of time morphs
thanks to the cruelty of the human body.
She cried every time she heard my voice.
I did the same.
I think we both knew that we would
never get to see each other again.
"How are you? I miss you. I love you."
and salty tears on the rim of the phone
were our relationship until she was gone.
I don't even know what her grave looks like.
All I know is that when I taste pineapples,
I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children.
If I, who barely knew her, could cry every time
I taste a pineapple, I could only imagine
how often they cry.
When I eat pineapples,
I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children.
The first time I slipped a chunk in my mouth,
the mother of my father cooked ham, another first for me.
I was nine, on vacation alone with my dad,
staying at my grandmother's, sleeping with her in her bed.
I remember lying ridged next to her, making sure
we did not touch. I was scared that I would squish her,
already taller than her by nine.
I knew she tried her best during that trip.
My only other vivid memories of her before
that were at the age of four
and surprisingly ages three and two.
My grandparents moved to Florida when I was about four,
the only time I rode on a train
that wasn't a dirty New York City Subway.
I know that I must have seen her sometime
between the ages of four and nine,
but I was homesick for a mother back home
with the same name while wondering how a father,
who was traveling right next to me, knew nothing
about me.
I knew her cooking the ham was her way
of trying to make me comfortable, of getting me
to eat. I do not like most fruits and veggies,
but I did fall in love with that ham soaked in pineapple juice.
I wonder if she would be happy to know
that I've been searching for someone who knew
how to make the perfect ham. There's been close
imitations, but that's all they were.
Nothing can replace the warmth of her hands
serving that pink glob of goodness. Or knowing
that at least she was beside me at night,
no matter how silent I was during that trip.
Those were the last of the memories.
I can't even remember if I saw her once after
in New York. All I remember is her voice over
the phone, especially after her stroke.
It was like listening to myself at three or four
before she moved, in a basement apartment
in East New York, Brooklyn.
"How are you? I miss you. I love you."
I know my parents must have taught me
how to say that to her when I was little.
Now that's all she was able to say to me
after I said them to her over 10 years later.
These last memories we had of each other,
imagining faces we once knew,
but certainly have changed over a phone line
were now only capable of time morphs
thanks to the cruelty of the human body.
She cried every time she heard my voice.
I did the same.
I think we both knew that we would
never get to see each other again.
"How are you? I miss you. I love you."
and salty tears on the rim of the phone
were our relationship until she was gone.
I don't even know what her grave looks like.
All I know is that when I taste pineapples,
I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children.
If I, who barely knew her, could cry every time
I taste a pineapple, I could only imagine
how often they cry.
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