(In honor of two sisters, Rosa and Freda)
My appetite in childhood was for fairytales, not food.
I devoured stories of long lost kin.
Who, in the finale, found each other.
I, napkin in hand, dabbed my tears.
As I gulped the last morsel of the tale.
Satisfied and relieved to fill my empty tummy.
The magical maze of memorable moments were eclipsed by demands of school.
My renegade mind preferred to wander among the stories my father trilled.
De sus primas argentinas,
las hijas de su tía Rosa,
hermana de su madre Freda, mi abuelita.
His words were melodies in another tongue.
He illustrated the truncated tree on placemats.
Etching curiosity, longing, loyalty in my soul.
The desire to learn that other language was a peppery empanada.
It burned a hole in my tongue.
Every sound, every word, every tense was a new flavor to savor.
To stir together in endless expressions of joy, hope, anticipation.
I studied, I stored, I prepared, and finally flew to foreign ports.
(Though not to Argentina).
To practice pronunciation.
Forge friendships.
In time, I believed my mission was fulfilled.
Days spun into months, months into years.
I gave birth to babies.
Built their bones and teeth with recycled chronicles.
Of a long lost clan who would eventually seek, find each other.
From time to time, the stories tripped a Spanish switch inside my brain.
Imagining a meeting of legendary kin and me.
One season, in a distant dream, the foliage caught fire.
The oaks began to shed leaves and acorns.
Autumn’s breeze blew the cobwebs from my eyes.
Beckoned me to notice seedlings that had rooted.
Across the yard, the stream, the ocean.
The cousins had journeyed to my land.
The occasion was favorable to meet.
I identified and surveyed them with wide-angle eyes.
Inside my body, there was all at once:
a fiery flash.
a searing sweetness.
a painful pica.
A new idea swallowed me whole.
My long affair with Spanish was the completion of a legacy.
My bond to you,
mis primas argentinas,
hijas de la tía Rosa,
hermana de Freda, mi abuelita.
And to all the unknown, and yet to be known.
Generations in Argentina and now in Chile.
This story was not a tale, but an epic of heroes and heroines.
Hunted by carnivorous Cossacks.
Forced to flee in four wheeled carts.
To be delivered like potatoes to unfamiliar towns, homes.
An agonizing amputation of a tree.
Whose branches were lost to each other.
In the darkness of Ukraine.
Determination blew them like dandelion parachutes.
Across the Atlantic to root in two gardens.
Separated by seasons, terrain, and time.
Nothing short of miraculous migration from shtetl to opportunity.
My amazement at the story set off a gustatory gush of memory.
To tales from days long gone.
Tales of other people’s reunions.
But this story, mis primas, is ours.
Though speech and countries differ, our bones, blood, breath link us.
To forebears, progeny, to each other.
Abrazos de su prima Lynn Benjamin
October 23, 2003
