A whimsical Ditty from me....

It’s the start of MANUELA’S PETALS, when all through my files,
I found documents stirring across thousands of miles.
Various photos were tucked into SILVAN folders with care,
With fantastical hopes they’d multiply if I peeked there.

I dreamed of a time, far back in Spain’s day,
When our forbears lived with their music and spades.
Their orchards were failing, their money grew dim.
And Hawaii soon called and reached out a limb.

So many generations I am learning their names,
Their birthdates, marriages and the babies that came.
I am ready to walk through their streets and see signs
That tell me rich history painstakingly survives.

Our ancestors are all nestled snug in their graves,
While visions of descendants never entered their heads.
But I try to imagine their Christmas Eve so long ago,
With fiestas and musical celebrations high and low.

A lacy mantilla covered Agustina Hernández Silvan’s hair,
And she’d just kneeled down for a long Christmas Eve prayer.
When out on the plaza major there arose such a clatter,
She wanted to spring from her knees to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, someone’s child flew like a flash,
Tearing up the aisle and tripping toward the sash.
She tried to sit quietly, prayer-like and timid,
But this matriarch was usually bold, rarely limpid.

The moon on the crest of the cobblestone street,
Gave the luster of mid-day to those trying to sneak…
When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But all of her grandchildren smiling from ear to ear.

With their parents behind them, so quiet and quick,
She knew in a moment she just might be sick.
With excitement and pleasure, their footsteps came,
And she smiled at each one, whispering their names.

Now, Manuela, Theodora, Felisa and little Cel!
And Alejandro, Juanitco, Jacinto and Agustin.
Bring baby Jose to me at the top of my pew.
Now dash in beside me and fall into a kneel.

And then, in a twinkling, she heard the priest say,
Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas to all this day.
Agustin, Juan, Victorino, Geronimo and Christina
He smiled at the Fuentesauco Silvans and swore…..

As he glanced toward the Alvas, Martins, and more.
Inhaling incense with smoke in his eyes, he admitted
His flock never looked so wondrous and fair
It was truly the peace of Christmas in the air.

These families would grow and multiply soon
Some might even fly up to the moon,
But Fuentesauco would shine like a beacon to draw
Descendants to meet these ancestors he just saw.

I smile as I dream of how it was then, wondering slightly
How it really could have been, with all those people
Who are part of my line, whose colors all blend tightly
Into red hair and brown, blue eyes and dark, tall and short.

Our Spanish pride will never grow dim as long as we remember
Our family before and embrace the descendants, him and her.
With MANUELA’S PETALS, and the
story that led them across the sea,
Working on plantations, playing their music, becoming American and me.