La Visita

When Abuelita visits

time seems to stop.

I begin to feel like a wise old cubana,

while she becomes young and American

as we trade our grandmother

granddaughter

two-country

stories.

Sitting side by side, we embroider

colorful stitches on circles

of soft, dream-filled cloth.

Inside my stiff embroidery hoop, a wilderness

of messy flowers starts to grow, the edges

sloppy, because needles are slippery

and my fingers feel too small

for perfection.

¡Perfecto! Abuelita says with a smile

to show that she’s happy I tried.

I wait to see if she’s going to follow

the island tradition of turning cloth over

to witness and judge any lumpy knots

or stray strands at the back

of a young girl’s jumbled

stitches.

Instead, she just gives me a hug

and lets me speak of modern things

that make me sound wise

in a youthful

new-country

way.

When Abuelita visits

all the way from Cuba

both of us stroll

through gardens

of distance

embroidered

by time.