A poem for my Cuban great grandmother who’s native tongue was stigmatized, who survived migration to escape the socio-political tensions of Cuba’s The Ten Years' War.
Diamond Smith
What Was Lost, What Survived
She didn’t teach Spanish.
She taught silence stitched into Sundays.
They cut her hair.
She stopped singing.
The recipes turned into guesses.
The prayers turned into whispers.
They told her her tongue was too heavy.
So she packed it behind her teeth and learned to smile without sound.
The island in her dreams grew smaller.
The street names faded.
The spices dulled.
The lullabies thinned.
But her hands—
her hands still braided bread.
Her hands still planted basil on windowsills.
Her hands still touched the back of my head with blessing, without needing words.
What was lost was a language.
What survived was a way of loving without it.