always hear my friends talk about their grandmothers, I guess because they are alive. I, on the contrary, very little named perhaps because I do not see your wrinkles looking for company to drop the dark. Almost always remember to turn the yellowed pages of albums stored or when walking near his portrait hung in a place special.
I was very lucky, why? Because I had a white grandmother and one black. No, I'm not crazy. You'll see why.
When I talk about is white Mother Teresa: Housewife. Lady apagaditos about becoming a violet blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a charm of yesteryear. Owner of an impressive character, worthy of a cherished wife of a noble and industrious landowner. To be more precise, the daughter of Arabs, bundle up your child why racial and religious heritage that ran through his veins. Imagine all of this in an old bed-ridden for over the years and with long hair immaculately washed cotton.
At five in the later had to be washed, combed and perfumed from head to toe. Rosewater or Jean Nate. Her dress (European fabrics and neutral colors) chose him after his maid on duty will show one after another, to choose the most perfect, as if waiting for a visit, which never came because their fateful evening were filled with loneliness . Until I got 10 years to keep her company on a soft bed which I always excelled feet. He spent the night listening to their complaints about a pill and lulled by the melodious tracheo unscrewed a fan blowing for both.
Every morning, a kiss and a blessing on its hands, otherwise I would be reprimanded by the indomitable matron. I learned their ways, to retire when adults wanted to talk, not to say anything that seemingly bad habits or prejudice its morale, to say, with permission lady, followed by. A coffee and offer just one foot on the door. Education strictly governed by a dictatorial manner grandmother. I can not escape my mind sharp to infer that perhaps would have been a good teacher to geishas. She almost never smiled, seemed in poor taste to show the teeth and feet worldwide. Was highly selective. Each sent was returned because it was never pleased, wanted to know and dominate everything around them, from esparramado handle that fell on the ground to what someone had hidden in his hands. I remember one of the many little Indian girls who cared for her, one morning, he had the ingenuity to stick to the peak of his soda presuming she would not notice, but the flip was too late because the blow came without mercy on her.
A faithful woman who raised her eleven children of one man and about the myth she created a large family, united, good and religious, becoming one of the oldest and beloved of the people. A lady who even in his last decade was the soul of a December, making back to the most distant recesses of his heirs to give you a hug and make smile every new year ...
... In another world, another city, other customs, other black poverty is my grandmother and her stories of sleeping in his cot with Maita . Aba Aura or as he liked to be told. Black hair, sometimes with hibiscus on the ear (donated by ourselves.) Morenita, mouth and cheeks painted red coloraos provided with two combs or processions, as his vocabulary. Worthy of boundless joy and incredible stories that roaring with laughter, typical of an Oriental. Their gowns were the same as always, very wide and printed with colorful flowers. I remember once my grandmother washed her clothes and laid on the balcony, and a friend of my brother asked if my mother washed his clothes Yolanda Moreno, jejejeje. She was dressed in what others leave any patch or turned in their most devoted and though I give away clothes new clothes, kept coming back to yours. As a young man worked making tobacco to put food on their children. Sang tangos: "Downhill in my shot ..." then try to dance , that's when he always gave a setback and we had to help her. He spoke of ghosts and phantoms. Prayed to his lungs and had a book, maybe one day I dare to edit, with all the prayers that perhaps no imagine you can write a grandmother. Spoiled grandchildren more males than females, my brother Elias and I, we received the plates with larger prey before the suspicious eyes of our sisters. It was like a pact of tenderness for us. Just had an arepa he began to see the numbers in the burnt shell and to play them in the lottery. He rode his feet on the cartoons in the newspapers; Panchita, Mandrake, Periquita, Olaf supposed to keep guessing random data. Just spent the whole afternoon my black grandmother.
always pulled a pan of large pockets of his clothes. It was home remedies. I never remember that smells like perfume, but traces of menthol or herbs. I never knew that their children were all from different fathers. Never met her four children in December, then great.
She went from house to house, reminding his Maíta perhaps searching cot that he loved, but was content to take refuge in the warm embrace of some grandchildren who will worship from ancient times.
These pages are yellowed, wrinkled, forgotten in a book of lessons for children are part of who I am. Two races, two worlds, two legacies, fear and strength, courage and tenderness, humility and pride, companionship and loneliness, loyalty and adventure, rigidity and freedom, decency and debauchery, are mixed in my blood as well as white and black to throw a lot every thought and every gesture of my being.
from heaven I hope they read this post. While I believe, by the strange thrill that my skin bristles, this time one of these two, or both, are right behind me reading what I write.
I was very lucky, why? Because I had a white grandmother and one black. No, I'm not crazy. You'll see why.
When I talk about is white Mother Teresa: Housewife. Lady apagaditos about becoming a violet blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a charm of yesteryear. Owner of an impressive character, worthy of a cherished wife of a noble and industrious landowner. To be more precise, the daughter of Arabs, bundle up your child why racial and religious heritage that ran through his veins. Imagine all of this in an old bed-ridden for over the years and with long hair immaculately washed cotton.
At five in the later had to be washed, combed and perfumed from head to toe. Rosewater or Jean Nate. Her dress (European fabrics and neutral colors) chose him after his maid on duty will show one after another, to choose the most perfect, as if waiting for a visit, which never came because their fateful evening were filled with loneliness . Until I got 10 years to keep her company on a soft bed which I always excelled feet. He spent the night listening to their complaints about a pill and lulled by the melodious tracheo unscrewed a fan blowing for both.
Every morning, a kiss and a blessing on its hands, otherwise I would be reprimanded by the indomitable matron. I learned their ways, to retire when adults wanted to talk, not to say anything that seemingly bad habits or prejudice its morale, to say, with permission lady, followed by. A coffee and offer just one foot on the door. Education strictly governed by a dictatorial manner grandmother. I can not escape my mind sharp to infer that perhaps would have been a good teacher to geishas. She almost never smiled, seemed in poor taste to show the teeth and feet worldwide. Was highly selective. Each sent was returned because it was never pleased, wanted to know and dominate everything around them, from esparramado handle that fell on the ground to what someone had hidden in his hands. I remember one of the many little Indian girls who cared for her, one morning, he had the ingenuity to stick to the peak of his soda presuming she would not notice, but the flip was too late because the blow came without mercy on her.
A faithful woman who raised her eleven children of one man and about the myth she created a large family, united, good and religious, becoming one of the oldest and beloved of the people. A lady who even in his last decade was the soul of a December, making back to the most distant recesses of his heirs to give you a hug and make smile every new year ...
... In another world, another city, other customs, other black poverty is my grandmother and her stories of sleeping in his cot with Maita . Aba Aura or as he liked to be told. Black hair, sometimes with hibiscus on the ear (donated by ourselves.) Morenita, mouth and cheeks painted red coloraos provided with two combs or processions, as his vocabulary. Worthy of boundless joy and incredible stories that roaring with laughter, typical of an Oriental. Their gowns were the same as always, very wide and printed with colorful flowers. I remember once my grandmother washed her clothes and laid on the balcony, and a friend of my brother asked if my mother washed his clothes Yolanda Moreno, jejejeje. She was dressed in what others leave any patch or turned in their most devoted and though I give away clothes new clothes, kept coming back to yours. As a young man worked making tobacco to put food on their children. Sang tangos: "Downhill in my shot ..." then try to dance , that's when he always gave a setback and we had to help her. He spoke of ghosts and phantoms. Prayed to his lungs and had a book, maybe one day I dare to edit, with all the prayers that perhaps no imagine you can write a grandmother. Spoiled grandchildren more males than females, my brother Elias and I, we received the plates with larger prey before the suspicious eyes of our sisters. It was like a pact of tenderness for us. Just had an arepa he began to see the numbers in the burnt shell and to play them in the lottery. He rode his feet on the cartoons in the newspapers; Panchita, Mandrake, Periquita, Olaf supposed to keep guessing random data. Just spent the whole afternoon my black grandmother.
always pulled a pan of large pockets of his clothes. It was home remedies. I never remember that smells like perfume, but traces of menthol or herbs. I never knew that their children were all from different fathers. Never met her four children in December, then great.
She went from house to house, reminding his Maíta perhaps searching cot that he loved, but was content to take refuge in the warm embrace of some grandchildren who will worship from ancient times.
These pages are yellowed, wrinkled, forgotten in a book of lessons for children are part of who I am. Two races, two worlds, two legacies, fear and strength, courage and tenderness, humility and pride, companionship and loneliness, loyalty and adventure, rigidity and freedom, decency and debauchery, are mixed in my blood as well as white and black to throw a lot every thought and every gesture of my being.
from heaven I hope they read this post. While I believe, by the strange thrill that my skin bristles, this time one of these two, or both, are right behind me reading what I write.
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