Abuela's Hands

I’m from the noisy engines and horns,
from the street corner where life never sleeps,
from carts heavy with mangoes, plátanos, and guavas
rolling past voices that call out, “¡Dos por veinticinco pesos!”

I’m from the laughter rising over dominoes slapped on wooden tables,
from the clink of Presidente bottles
and the easy music of neighbors who know each other’s names.

I’m from a house above a colmado,
where the smell of rice and fried salami
floated through iron windows

I knew I was home when I smelled sweetness of melting ice cream
across the street—Helado Bon,

I’m from my abuela’s hands
the ones that counted pesos and blessings with the same care,
that served strangers and saints alike,
because respect was the language everyone understood.

I’m from the sound of my cousins’ footsteps
thundering up and down the stairs,
barefoot and careless,
having fun until we were called for bed.

I’m from a block that knows my family’s name,
from stories told between customers and laughter,
from a place where even the toughest men
lower their voices when my grandmother speaks.  

I’m from that small corner of the city

where the air smells like fritos and rain,

where the music never turns off,

and where I learned that home

isn’t just a place

it’s the people who sit out front,

waiting for me to come back.

About the Author

Joshua is the type of person who doesn't take no for an answer. He comes from a family and culture of hustle, ambition, and determination on everything and anything they put their minds to. Even though his journey with poetry is new, Joshua learned how to speak from the heart and watch how it all connects and flows.