Medellin, Colombia.
The kettle runs out of breath,
nursed back to life
by a pair of hands with skin
colored by storms.
“There’s no day I don’t think about them,”
her hands sing into the cup
filling it with the richness of her coffee,
her words lead me
to the portraits of two handsome men— her sons.
“I thought I couldn’t live on,”
she turns and hands me the cup.
I feel her kindness
swell inside my throat;
she tells me about the bottomless
depth of loss
and what it means
to have both sons’ lives
taken away by guns.
Mrs. Moremo holds my hands.
“Don’t worry,” she says,
“I am okay. I have God’s love.”
In her eyes, I find the light of truth,
and suddenly I am no longer
a stranger in a home
that smells like my grandmother’s
even though
it’s on the other side of the globe.
When Mrs. Moreno reaches
out to hold me to her heart
I hear faith
speak in a language
that needs no translation.
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| Heroína Zapata, Mrs Moreno |
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