PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sitting in that narrow kitchen we were: eight full grown men waiting for my grandma to finish her world famous Mole. It was such a ritual, that all human courtesy was sent to oblivion, and only after the adults were finished the kiddos could eat a portion of that heavenly Mole. But I have to tell you, the little blue pot where my grandmother made her “molero” was indeed magical. 8,000 men could come down to my grandmother's house after a full day of work and 8,000 men would come out of that colorful pastel home with a full belly, singing dreadful old songs about ancestrals times. The mole from the blue pot would just keep coming out, it would never finish. In that house, away from the eyes of god, where they prayed to him, but were never to be heard, the walnut tree would cover the gutters with the rubbish falling from it, as if it were rain. It seemed so natural to be part of that act, of the feelings involved, that any action out of the norm was immediately mitigated. And I’ve asked myself this before, were we truly free? It seems to me that we were attracted like predators searching for a treat and no matter what we felt like doing we were being part of something even greater than family. Positions at the table would dictate a certain type of hierarchy; it was also defined by the beard lengths and the amount of tequilas someone could take. We were being men, in spite of whatever they would say. My grandma, being the only woman around, would intermittently ask someone to shut up. I’ve never been a man of words myself, and the gloomy hue of the place would keep me occupied: the decreasing light that accompanies the afternoon varying from yellow to the deepest orange you would ever see and back to light yellow for a last time before a cold night, kept me wondering about my grandmother’s hair line. They all used to be young, my father, my uncles, everyone. But surely not long from now, one will die. Of course there are hidden feelings involving everybody. I can almost assure you that someone wanted somebody dead, even though we were family. The magic of the Mole suspended any action to take place. A lot of people will perish without knowing my grandma’s world famous mole, but human redemption has always been not knowing, as we are the same that what we were before, by virtue of that same very fact. That sweet and spicy mole would scald our tongue as if we were eating a forbidden dish.