She rests in the potted plants of the family room and in the hanging garden in my room - She is everywhere that the earth is, that love is - and my house is bursting with it. Her laughter bubbles up through the cracks in the wood and waters the plants, keeping watch over Her children. and we return Her love in gifts of meals, in more flowers, in watering and fertilizing Her endless earth. every time i hug my mother another flower blooms in the kitchen - and my mother will laugh and thank Her, Her name slipping through our lips ringing with joy.
we mention Her to my uncles and aunts and they smile, laugh, point out how pretty those shrubs are and how much She respects those who respect Her. when we slip into native tongue, into mapudungun, into the language of our foremothers, we can feel Her smiling. She leaves flowers to grow by the dog's bed and keeps plants alive for years even if i forget to water them - Her children have flaws, just like Her, and she will not punish them for the sin of forgetting.
my mami and papi will make empanadas and charquican, tongues still weaving through the languages they've never been ashamed of - they are immigrants, yes, but they are immigrants from Her soil, Her mountains - and we will do our best to keep Her alive.