short
years
we lived outside of Barcelona
in a place
called Castle de Fels.
my mother
learned how
to make the best
paella i've ever eaten.
still true to this day.
Franco
was still in power, and
the memories
of a civil war
were still fresh in the minds
of elders.
the ice truck brought
blocks of
ice to us,
which we chipped with
pointed knives.
we kicked a ball
for hours
in the field.
we learned the language,
and spent long
sunlit days
on the sand against
the green water of
the Mediterranean Sea.
sacks of leather wine
were on the table
at every meal,
and we hid when
the gypsies came
around, robed in black,
their wagons
pulled by dark horses
along
the cobblestones.
we watched as the keeper
of the house
would collect the new
born kittens
in a burlap sack, to take
them to the sea,
to drown.
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