Advertisement
El molcajete de mi abuelita
My grandmother’s grinding stone
se ha perdido.
has gotten lost.
Se le regaló a un pastor.
It was gifted to a pastor.
(Una vez, en su oficina, vi que
ahí era donde ponía su biblia,
en el lugar donde había maíz,
alimento fortificante.)
(Once, in his office, I saw that
that was where he rested his
Bible—the place where there
was corn, fortifying nutrition.)
Sobrevivir está hecho de la
sombras del molcajete. Está
hecho de todas las formas del
trabajo de las manos de mi
abuelita.
Surviving is made of the shad-
ows of the grinding stone. It is
made of all the forms of work
of my grandmother’s hands.
El encaje. La tortilla. El
futuro de sus doce hijos, bor-
dado con cariño, pintado con
fe necia, dobladillos de miles
de oraciones.
The lace. The tortilla. The
future of her twelve chil-
dren, embroidered with love,
painted with stubborn faith,
hems of thousands of prayers.
El molcajete se perdió, pero
las mujeres, la bisabuela y
las abuelas se quedan para
siempre.
The grinding stone was lost,
but the women, the great-
grandmother and the grand-
mothers remain forever.
Ellas son mis molcajetes,
de permanencia, de cono-
cimiento, haciéndome mi
misma y mi comunidad.
They are my grinding stones,
of permanence, of knowing,
becoming both myself and my
community.
Excerpted with permission from Spilling the Light: Meditations on Hope and Resilience, © 2019 Theresa I. Soto (Skinner House).