Colors for Papito

In the end, Homer would have said
That Fortune cast her golden smile on old papito
That mercurial divinity had been ringing him
With colors his whole life,
From the highlands of Oaxaca
Where the terraces rise and curve green on the hillsides,
To the fields of Sonora,
Where the parched earth blurred by dust–devils
Left their mark on his weathered face,
And onward in his roundabout walk
To his final rest in Hillsboro.

Now Fortune in her sweetness circles the old grandpa
With his children and grandchildren,
Their brown eyes filled with sorrow and gladness,
Mirroring the memory of what really mattered
In all the far–flung days of his life.

The children plastered old papito's bedroom,
Even his final earthen tomb
With stories told on colored paper,
Strange hieroglyphs strung together,
Sketches covering the halls of heaven,
Of faces with elephantine ears and weird bodies—
So many icons drawing our attention
To the workings of the child's soul.

Yes, Fortune has smiled on old papito,
Seeing him through the seasons to his very autumn
With his children standing along the way;
He, a leaf tawny and red, waving slowly in the sky
Before circling quietly down to the earth.
But his last memories will remain
The colors of his children's faces,
Sparkling brown eyes and red lips of the utter innocence,
Their hearts rushing joyous gold in their love for him.