by SADGIRL
papi cuentame otro cuento (daddy, tell me another story)
i would ask
through the absence of his presence
he’d tell me of his journey back home
back to my mom and me
i remember looking at his pictures
and longing for the tickling stubs of his growing beard
for his piggy back rides or how he’d carry me on his shoulders
and the way his hands cupped my cheeks with adoration
papi cuentame otro cuento
i would ask
when he’d come back from his weeks away working
he’d tell me of the melting snow
the cold creeks and growing rivers
he’d tell me the stories of the land and agriculture
how he farmed and broke the soil
he’d go into a tangent about the milpas and cañas de azucar
how the sweet sugar flowed from them
how the sun hugged his toasty skin
like a canvas i could see it all painted there
papi cuentame otro cuento
i would ask
when we would see the news
de caravanas of people migrating north
hed tell me the enduring pain of walking the desert with 5 kids
he had to go back to his homeland to bring back his son and nephews in hope for a better life
how he had to carry them on his back taking turns when the journey got too rough
of the not knowing if he was going to make it
of the determination he had to hold on to
with chaffed hands on a burning rope
when boils were all his feet could feel
papi cuentame otro cuento
i would ask
when he missed his homeland
sometimes he’d stay silent reminiscing of his school days
of the freedom he knew in his youth
walking the fields, climbing the trees
when he cannon balled into the tame river on the side of his house
driving camiones over the creeks and dirt roads
of his hardworking father and caring mother
of the blue eyed, dark skin woman that raised him
the tall señor who seemed to come out the womb old he took after
the way his patria smelled a particular day
how the breeze felt while he swayed in a amaca near the ocean
how the cold charamuscas felt on a blazing hot day
i love the way my old man would tell me these stories
or even when the silence was a story of its own
i love hearing his gruff voice
how he can see his Honduras within reach
how our histories have grown its roots
like my old man who i like to call my tree
because I’d have to tilt my head up and climb
to hear his story