Tears in my eyes didn’t let me see
but my imagination gave form to the sound
of a blow, followed by my sister crying.
I felt like Peter.
Mischieving was carved in our skin.
My sister and me
we lied so often
no evidence could be presented
to vindicate us this time.
We never met Grandma.
She was an idea,
the quality of kindness,
the substitute of the mother
we never had.
She lived in our living room, though,
in a vase full of ashes.
With the laudable intention
of making her rise again
like a phoenix,
we profaned her several times before.
Too many times we called up the wolf.
But Father was no fool.
Always in cahoots, my sister and me
had a story ready to tell.
A smile on our faces,
a hug, even a wet sight
to ingratiate us with Father
and save face.
Too many times we called up the wolf.
But Father wasn’t stupid.
We were young, we were (fools)
unaware of his burden,
his solitude,
his need for peace and trust,
trust oftentimes we broke.
Too many times we called up the wolf.
Father was our factotum, but he wasn’t dumb.
How the urn fell on the floor,
we still don’t know.
Maybe Grandma,
unable to divulge the name
of her hustlers,
rose from the ashes like a phoenix
and put us on the spot.
Scrupulously we described
the unusual scene
aware of the impossibility
to convince.
Scared we told the truth
for the first time.
But too many times we called up the wolf.
And the wolf it was this time, not us.
And Father was a fool just once.