We begin at the beginning

I was raised from the age of six in the house, care and 'tutela' of an accountant, a numbers cruncher, and learned early on that everything had a price and a value. Mine, in that borrowed house that belonged to the husband of my mother, was minimal. I had the wrong father, the wrong last name, the wrong everything. I was too smart and too smart-mouthed, had too many opinions, was too combative. I was also the oldest, and when the new children came, from the accountant and counter and reckoner, I was relegated to the duties of babysitter, diaper-changer, feeder. Oh but I loved those children desperately, because to me there was no half-sibling understanding. These were babies, my babies, whose cloth diapers I changed and boiled and washed, whom I burped and fed, and played games with, and loved.

With time I discovered that my duties were not held in high esteem, as I was not either. I became an avid reader, a secret reader, a reader of everything and every type of literature. My escape and my solace was with my father's father, whom I adored. He spoke languages and made mayonnaise at the table, but he did not escape unscathed. He was always found wanting, found to be less than, to be more than, to be weird, and years later, to be a jew, which my mother said was tainted, and explained why I was unsuitable.

Abuelo was a fighter, but I was told he was the family black sheep, a title I seem to have inherited and worn with some pride. In a family of very rich commercial men, he was the war correspondent, the impecunious one, the worthless one at the mercy of richer relatives. He is the one that stayed behind, though, when we left Cuba, and became the Swiss embassy translator. He taught me to play Scrabble and cheated in many languages...

Habanera

Duérmete mi niña, duérmete mi amor
the voice of abuelita Adela asking me the flavor
of my thumb at night, abuelo cheating at Scrabble
played in four languages while I learned the rudiments
of ajedrez, rooks, knights and obispos.

The house and its large gardens, a strange menagerie
of dogs and cats and once a goat, several hens for eggs,
ducks in the pond, and parrots discussing politics
and the news in raucous orange cries. My tata Eugenia
braiding my hair with pretty yellowgreen lazos,
telling me about el coco who'd kidnap any nia
foolish enough to misbehave. Abuela Inés always the perfect
beautiful seora rocking herself in her sillón as she played
old habaneras on her guitar. The world tasted
of sweet fried plaintain, arroz con leche with canela,
warm hugs and toothless smiles while I combed
abuelita's hair, a long cascade of silver.

Mother's divorce was swift and hidden, sundered my world
of chickens and abuelos, left me with shortened weekend visitation,
long enough for Sunday trips to the Larousse, el Diccionario
de la Real Academia Espaola, and ten volumes of Oxford's
for good measure. It was impossible to win at Scrabble.

Memories of my father then are dim.
He was a background picture lit
by blue linternas. It took his death
to resurrect his living.

The sounds of son and rumba are all that's left now;
memory plays her tricks with time and shadows, the players
have gone on where none can follow. They've left
their hearts and voices in an habanera, flauta, bongó,
guitarras and maracas, sway of the palm trees singing
habanera eres tú, habanera...