Western Avenue and Other Fictions

The Shadows of Palms

45 The Shadows of Palms Abuela Monsa stands in her open kitchen. Steam rises with the little song she hums. She dances and sways to her song, moving back and forth from table to stove. Sunlight slants into the doorway , banana leaves shaking in the breeze, shadows entering in waves behind the sunlight and the leaves. A hummingbird flutters just above her shoulder, its ochre throat turning silver against the color of her hair. She works between this morning’s shadow and sun: she chops garlic, onion, green pepper, cilantro, and tomato. She adds them to a pan of simmering rice. Pouring achiote oil into the pan, the rice turning a deep yellow. She lightly rubs the side of my cheek with the back of her hand, smiles, and then turns over a small blue bowl, a stream of glistening gandules trembling into the pan. She spoons coffee into a boiling pot of water, then adds a small cup of cream and a couple spoonfuls of sugar. The kitchen: the doors wide open, windows without glass or screens, leaves and hummingbirds freely floating in, the sunlight filling the kitchen and patterning the white tiled floor with the shadows of palms. The salt, black pepper, olive oil, and the sweet smell of mangoes ripening on the table. The lush shaking of leaves, fruits hitting the ground in a deep thud, abuela’s sandals scraping the floor, her spoon striking the side of a silver pot: Why is it now filled with such silence? Abuela brings me a cup of coffee, a plate of yellow rice and gandules surrounded by slices of avocado. This old woman, her flowered dress, her silver hair, her dark skin a calendar of sun falling into the sea. My first memory of my father’s mother. The first time I tell myself, Run a sharp knife across your palm, feel the small living gestures that count the most. ...