Lola Rosario

Spanish Behind Closed Doors

I have a memory of my grandmother’s broken English. It sounded like a tongue twisted and trapped in a mouth yearning to be rescued and reminded of the sweet sounds of its youth in the tiny town she once called home. When she said things like ‘we will selle-breight sans-giving soon’ and ‘ju know what I sayin,’ I wanted to whisper in her ear ‘it’s ok, you can speak to me in Spanish, grandma.’ I wanted to ask her what happened and why she insisted on only speaking to me in a foreign language that never loved her - one that by association, never loved me either. Sometimes I tried to imagine why she boarded the plane with my five-year young father and never looked back. I wondered what stories and perhaps, nightmares she left behind in the west side of Borikén. There were so many things I wanted to know - like why I couldn’t call her abuela and why she never spoke of her younger years. I wish I had told her she was safe with me, that she didn’t have to keep her long ago yesterdays hidden, tucked away in a drawer full of  sorrow. I wished I had insisted that she share her español behind closed doors - safe with me.