This is a voice from my generation speaking to another generation.
Grandfather, Mom, and Grandma are going at it again.
The cement covering of your grave is still intact.
During the rainy season, it grows mold.
Sometimes we play on it; sometimes, Grandma strokes it, whispers.
Tears on her mahogany skin.
I’m sure she’s telling you about her day. I’m not sure
you can hear.
They have cut the mango tree in the backyard. I don’t know why.
The one in the front is still there. We eat from it during the dry season.
Your children speak your name with reverence,
but Grandfather, I’m afraid you’ll be forgotten.
Your friends are dying, too.
Your siblings succumb one by one, children also.
Do you see them where you are?
Do you see my father or have his sins caught up to him?
Does he speak of me?
Does he love me?
Grandfather, things are the same, but so different.
The sun shines while it rains.
Our hearts are stitched but still broken.