In the heat and snow, suburbia lies,

wooden white chairs filled with youthful stories.

Their Abuelo sat at the head, quiet,

looking outside, but mind alone, afar.

One day he took his pills and did not wake,

seats changed, for now, their Tío takes the head.

My foundations are cracked and repainted.

Brown to white to sky blue, he covered me

with coats of color so no one noticed

the soft creaks of my glass, getting louder.

Abuela watches telenovelas,

making arepas on Sunday mornings.

But she has not left the house since he passed.

The stove is cold, no one knows how to

start.

He is gone, and I am still here waiting

for him to sit back at the head watching

fútbol and Caso Cerrado beside

his wife, preparing meals, preparing laughs-

but never being able to prepare

them, prepare me, for the weight of

absence.

All people come and leave, that much I know,

The children sleep, the adults clean, I wait

for the next day, sunrise, warm espresso

pressed against my glass, listening to them

talk about their busy lives, believing they

will return to me, tired, but happy.

Now they sit in silence, not knowing how

to make the space feel less like loss and guilt.

Eat the sancocho, then, we cry

alone.