Margarita: blossom, or pearl. She wore broken English on her right hand, and
Her native tongue, from deep in the mountains
It came, she wore on her left. The only girl
Of five, from a village famed for its lace, not
For economic opportunity. A small stronghold
Of cousins, aunts and uncles linked around her like
The mesh of mail when she stepped
Off the boat in 1961.
From factory silk, she fashioned imitations of royalty,
Her hand imbued with the wordless lessons
Of her mother, and of her mother’s mother.
The tradition died on the Second of May, 2018.
Yet everything has changed.
We will have Christmas in December, without
Charlotta, we will have Easter when the
Spring comes, and the remaining women
Will make flounes. My grandfather will
Burst into song at every gathering,
But she won’t laugh in exasperation.
Her daughters will pass on her lessons to
We will grow into adults,
And we will wear broken Greek on our right hand,
And English on our left.
We all might marry and have children,
One of whom will be named.
Margarita. Spring will come and with it,