thoughts on my grandmother.

"mija, ven aqui," she says

i am confused but not surprised

"abuela" is a word i have come to know but not to understand

"your body... it reminds me of when I was young."

youth is something i can faintly imagine on her, a quick fleeting image, there but gone too soon.

just like the families jumping in the back of the truck

tarp over their cramped and bruised bodies, forced to the edges

children nestled tightly against their mothers' chests

do not make a sound or they will find us.

plastic bags tied around her feet for "protection"

she laughs about it now but i dont know what to say. 

i know i can't give much back to her

her days in the sun were shortened by the bitterness of humanity, the selfish hunger within us all.

so i live for her, through her.

in my father's arms i am allowed to weep and i find refuge 

the way that she couldn't.

my home would protect me if a man wanted to hurt me

what did home mean for her?

i can choose to run because i want to

because oh, i just feel like it.

maybe i'll love my body more.

my abuela didn't have the damn choice whether or not to run.

but having seen it all, she laughs with a carefree look in her eyes. 

she still closes her eyes when she prays.