I sat across from my plate,
stomach doing summersaults.
My abuela’s hard-won labor
laid before us, the smell of
rice and beans, pernil and pie,
all the things she knew we loved—
decades of meaning ladled and
diced, set on her last good china,
all the family together and the years
we lost between.
I always hated waiting as round and
round we went listing all the things
we loved and lost—the good—
a laundry list of blessing, always
something missing, something
overlooked. Older. Wiser. I see now
what I missed. The longer the sharing,
the greater the blessing:
a cold slice of ham a year’s worth of grace.