The Day Abuela Yellow Hair Died

Nuyorican cousins flew all over-
Prodigal sons and daughters
Returning to their little green island,

Twenty plus years etched on slightly worn

Faces and midlife bodies.

At the funeral home

Solemn and quiet,

Alone or in groups of two or three

They walked up 

To the open casket.

Arms linked together

They gazed down at her

Small and shrunken

Face heavily made up

Her smile

Gone.

Afterwards they gathered

At the peach casita

With the iron-grilled cased windows,

Sat around laughing/crying telling stories

Looked up at her wall of

Bleached out colored photos

Fanned themselves,

Straightened out crooked pictures

And swatted at stray cucarachas,

Ate some arroz y habichuelas

With chicken and sweet plantains.

Then someone cranked up the salsa music and they

Swirled and laughed like they used to do

Back in the Bronx during New Year’s when someone would eventually fall,

Drunk, on his face.

And that night they drove 

To Old San Juan and danced at the 80’s hole-in-the wall

Till every ounce of seat 

Poured out of them 

Rising with the humidity and the mangoes

And they knew she was laughing.