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Cascarones MAG
January 8, 2017
I dream of Grandpa’s hands,
dull, cracked, with veins like
roots, setting themselves in my memory
somewhere between my sixth birthday
and fourth Easter.
Do you remember
those hollow egg shells
we colored on the kitchen table?
“This is where your dreams go, Mijo.”
Filled the holes in the bottom
with shreds of tissue paper and a
sparkling powder.
I still dream of you, Tata.
Breaking cascarones on my head.
Smiling, with eggshells shining in your hair
as confetti and glitter float somewhere into the sky
© Tina T., Norwalk, CT
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