Generations

The year of 19-something,

Some number of years after the war.

She’s got a couple of pesos and a family left behind,

And as she steps into an unfamiliar world there’s a dream to which she will tightly cling.

It’s a hot sunny day when she finally sets foot in the U.S.A.

The American Dream and the Hollywood Dream

Bombard her as she all at once begins to make a name for herself–

A seamstress, a businesswoman with the same persistence as the scorching relentless sun in the rolling valleys of L.A.

That’s how I sometimes imagine it at least.

I don’t know the real story.

It’s something long lost in time

That I cannot ask the deceased.

Flash forward a couple of years,

She raises enough to bring her kids to The States,

But they are out of touch

And the hills have ears.

Each tradition, each recipe, each dialect

Is caught on a wooden spoon, dripping off like honey.

More and more is lost in the melting pot with each stir of a generation

Until there is hardly nothing left.