On Being an Abuela

This post is about my first grandson. I reblog it today on Grandparent’s Day.

Poemattic: Poetry and Art for the Soul

I do not know well

his habits

or his favorite color,

I do not know

the sounds he’s curious about

or the meaning of his hearty shout

or what fascinates him more

about himself

when he sees

his image in the mirror

and greets himself

with a chuckle

calling out his own name.

I want to know more about

the things he fears,

the questions he’ll form as he watches the trees sway

and catches a glimpse of his shadow

as it follows him


and quietly

I do not know well

what he feels about me

his abuela

how can he know

that I love him so

when I barely see him.

I do know

my love grows

with every smile

he grants me,

and every time he pokes

at my arm

to ask for a cookie.

I do know

that no matter

how far

apart we may be

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