We used to split walnuts and walk to the library

Amber Buckles

Besitos, besitos, one for each cheek Greeting her two sons and four nietas, Nana collected cartoons on blank VCRs, ham and cheese sandwiches by the pool

Turquoise glimmer, little stone fishes splash the cool water, the peak of summer The little girls dive to retrieve the fish, plus a broken fin to be buried in the garden. My Dad wanted to have sons while Nana dreamed of granddaughters.

I like to imagine a tiny hand reaching for mine without the burden of any expectations. Not every pinecone will stem roots; losing scales under the shade of the looming vessels that procured them Indistinguishable generations

Imagine if every father’s daughter decided if he could enter into heaven?

“Whisper to me,” God would say, The fruit of the womb a reward

Gold plated rose petals scattered

I swing my hips in the kitchen Red nail polish, fresh afternoon fruit Twirling her best sevillana dress, pondering the aquamarine house on Juarez Street in Tucson, Arizona, and the planted Christmas trees neighboring the Saguaro in the yard.

I shop for saffron and softest bread, grease the cast iron skillet and blast the punchiest guitars on Spotify “Besitos, besitos, Nana,” together we dance. Previous Page

Geneva Laur