Someone once told me I have my grandmother’s smile.
Kind of took me for a loop.
I felt warmth, then grief gave me a light smack to the face.
It’s mostly
bittersweet moments where I remember your infectious laughs and warm hugs.
Ten years without your famous spaghetti and meatballs.
Ten years since you told me, “Never forget me.”
I have ten years’ worth of things to tell you!
I’m weirdly comforted knowing you’ve been near to see,
maybe in the clouds, sitting in a recliner chair watching me accept my college diploma.
I wonder how life would’ve been if you were still here.
I could’ve been happier,
a bigger smile than the one I wear nowadays.
Maybe then I could see our smiles’ resemblance.
Puerto Rico feels like you.
Probably sitting with us at the table, sipping on parcha mojitos and munching on fritura.
Swimming in the pool you and Grandpa built, you must be tanning next to me,
waking up to humidity and coquí frogs, and dedicating every sunset to you.
Ten years have passed, many tears fallen, and smiles that look just like yours
visit me in my dreams for just one more hug,
one more conversation,
one more smile, one more I love you,
and a million I miss yous after that.
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