by Jennifer Madriaga
I.
Pain made me mute, Leslie told me.
I couldn't write a poem for fifteen years
after my grandfather died.
Pain made my neurons burn
down to my fingertips.
I'm not ready to write this poem.
Lola, I lived in fear of my answering machine
these past couple years, afraid of what
it would say when I pressed rewind.
I knew you were ill. I knew that
your time would soon be up.
Mom and I spoke of this indirectly.
We said to one another
She is so old.
I called home in January
and talked to Dad.
He was quiet as I prattled on.
I paused.
He said
Your grandmother died today.
So I lived in fear of my answering machine
these couple of years for nothing.
II.
Lola, if you could have seen me
before you died, if you still had sight,
if I had come
You would have seen me fat and tired
from stress and work, doing a job
that was aging me faster and faster
Time was taking me further and further
away from your soft arms, from the
time you held me in your lap when
I was first born.
Lola, even when I was young, you had white hair.
You smelled of comfort and Chinese Tiger Balm.
You wringed chickens' necks with your bare hands.
You lived in fear of the Japanese, even though
they were long departed.
III.
I missed your funeral.
I didn't come to Villasis for a week.
I reasoned to myself why. I was too busy.
I was working overtime
and still not catching up.
The flight would be too long.
With layovers, the trip would be
over twenty hours long.
It was too late to say good-bye.
I was too busy to live.
I was in denial of happiness
at the time you died anyway.
When I finally arrived at Villasis
the business of death was really over with.
I didn't visit your grave for another three days.
Your mattress had been thrown out,
your bedframe left behind the house to dry.
I arrived at your house at noon.
I lay down in my old room,
felt myself overcome by fatigue
and watched the white curtains on the windows
billow out where I saw the sky.
IV.
For three days I re-lived my childhood.
I slept on the floor with the mosquito nets up,
listened to the lizards singing on the ceiling.
I took baths with ice cold water and prayed the rosary.
In the mornings, I went to mass,
then to market with Mom and cousin JoJo
where we bought fresh vegetables
Finally, one morning I said to Mom,
I would like to visit Lola.
That morning we went to mass,
brought a candle and matches,
hired a tricycle to bring us to the cemetary.
We approached your grave from a dirt path
lined with the concrete mausoleums of other dead.
The sun was still low; it was not quite eight.
Mom said, Over there.
We climbed over other graves to visit you.
The dead here are so close to one another.
The dead here are buried on top of each other
and inches beside each other.
In the U.S. I am used to manicured lawns
dotted by bouquets of flowers.
It was not until I saw your grave that
I learned your real name was Apollonia
and not Nena.
It was not until I touched the cool white concrete
that I realized you were inside this box
away from touch forever.
Lola, I should have come to see you,
even if it was while you were
lying in state in the front room,
even if you could not hear
my last words whispered to you.
Lola, if I had come just a week earlier
I would have held your hand
I would have seen you in your favorite dress,
which was green with a lace jacket
your niece had made for you.
Mom said, Leave regrets to the wind.
Nothing changes what is done.
V.
Lola, this is how I remember you always,
hating you when I was in the fourth grade
because you refused to let me boil water
by myself. You said I was too young
and would burn myself.
Lola, this is how I remember you always,
leaving the United States for good
because of cold weather, boarding
the plane in Norfolk at the end of February.
Lola, the day after you left, I went into your room
and found the stuffed dog we gave you
for Christmas. I was so distressed you left it behind.
It was then I realized that you would die someday.
I was ten when I realized this.
I was ten when you last saw me.
You had not gone blind then.
Lola, this is how I remember you always,
kind with smiling eyes and
your saying, Do not worry in Ilocano
though I have long forgotten the actual words.
My sorrow is in my mouth,
refusing to be spoken.
Regrets, I am full of them.