A Mother’s Love
Emilia Mitchell ‘28
The Ukulele belongs to my mother, she’s had it since I was little. Her and my dad were married in Hawaii, and her all time favorite flowers are the white, yellow, and pink Plumeria flowers. I had her permission to paint her Ukulele, so I made it more personal with hand painting her favorite flowers, and now it’s a gift from the heart.
Mamilochi
She weaves a lavender ribbon through my hair,
Her tremulous hands briefly brush against my collarbone,
“Tukusqañam kachkan” she mutters, her mouth carved with soft lines of joy,
A word I can’t quite comprehend,
Spoken in a language that remains entirely foreign to my tongue.
The veins of her hands, flowing like the sacred river of Willkamayu,
I have no verbs for the soil she walked,
No phrases for the suffering she lived through,
No words for the Andes mountains reflected by her wrinkled eyes.
Yet, there is no silence.
I am fluent in you,
You are fluent in me,
And that is the only language we need to speak.
Franchesca Blashki ‘30
This poem was inspired by my grandmother -- specifically a familiar memory engraved into my mind from when she used to do my hairstyles. The reason I chose this particular memory is because she unfortunately no longer does my hairstyles. She developed Parkinson's disease, and the hands that once carefully braided my hair are no longer capable of doing so. Despite our language barrier, she and I have been able to communicate through art, shared activities, and emotional resonance. She is a living testament to her roots, a reflection of generations of family heritage, Peruvian soil, and belonging -- and I don't require a dictionary to communicate with her.