The Light at Abuela's House

A poem by Janell Strube

Last Sunday, I had the privilege of visiting a memory care center with the group, La Viva Flamenco, and to bring dance and a little holiday cheer to a group of people who live behind closed and locked doors, but are full of life. It was wonderful. I left with my heart enriched, and the feeling that, on this Sunday morning, I had done the most meaningful thing for myself and others and to show my gratitude for my place on this earth. Here is the poem I that I performed there, inspired by my flamenco dancing class, the town where I live, and the little neighbor boy next door.

Here are a few of my favorite holiday photos, and a memory of my morning of Flamenco.

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The Light at Abuela’s House

The light at Abuela’s house
spills into the street
the brightest in the neighborhood
La cocina in Abuela’s house
the busiest, filled with cousins,
teenagers, Tia Maria, Tia Elisabetta.
Beans, rice and tortillas on the stove,
chocolate and cinnamon in the air.

The laps in Abuela’s house
the softest embrace of love,
a safe place for little ones
to learn the world.

The guitar strums a sweet song
on the radio, the people shout,
“Feliz Navidad!” Skirts twirl,
feet stomp, hands clap.

Children are lifted high in loving arms.
Laughter rings. Music plays.
Children sing. The world turns.

The eight nights at Bubbe Nonna’s house -
the dreidel spins, the fire snaps
the candles burn to ancient stories told.
Cheese on a vegetable lasagna
melts in the oven. “Happy Hannukah!”
hail the aunties as children snatch
hot latkes off treasured china plates,
open gifts, sing the Ma’oz Tzor. Then
accordions call, fiddles beguile and
in the living room a circle forms.
Sticky little hands clasp loving hands.
Legs flash in and out of the ring
of linked arms. Dancing skirts twirl,
feet stomp, hands clap.

Children are lifted high in loving arms.
Laughter rings. Music plays.
Children sing. The world turns.

Mornings at granny’s house
flapjacks heat on the griddle,
brown sugar syrup bubbles on the stove.
Children run around the kitchen,
grab hot raisin stuffed rugalach
off the cookie sheet, shout glad tidings
to a stooped woman with white hair
who speaks only German. Her light
regards them, her love surrounds
them, no words are said.
Stille Nacht tumbles in her head.

Music from the old country spins
on the turntable in the dining room,
the children rush in, the children play.

Their skirts twirl, their feet stomp, their hands clap.

Their voices are lifted high.
Laughter rings. Music plays.
Children sing. The world turns.

At Grandma’s house, the tree is trimmed
the table groans with merriment, ham,
Christmas roast, collard greens, yams,
sweet potato pie.

In the wooden rocking chair, the littlest one
rests on grandma’s chest beside the fire.
The Temptations sing Silent Night on the iPhone
in grandma’s lap. The children come and go
out in the snow, shake off their boots,
hang up their coats. They sing and cry
and snowball fight to Aretha Franklin’s
Winter Wonderland. Behind closed eyes,
she knows dark snow angels dance
across the yard. Their scarves twirl,
their feet stomp, their mittened hands
give a muffled clap.

Their voices lift on high.
Laughter rings. Music plays.
Children sing. The world turns.

One starry night at the Mission
of Old San Juan, where a giant
Christmas tree sparkles bright
against an indigo sky, and music
filters across the lawn,
I pick up my neighbor’s toddler.
We spin and sway.

The guitar plays sweet notes.
the men sing, “Feliz Navidad!”

My skirt twirls, my feet stomp,
his little hands clap
close to my heart.

I lift him up high.
The music plays.
Our laughter rings.
His parents sing.

The world, it turned,
and I see that
I am the abuela now.

Janell Strube 12/2024

Happy holidays everyone!