The spotlight makes this Norwegian fellow our center.
Unemotional is what people see,
his white skin, ice eyes, mask his personality
that entertain us at the table.
“I would rather dance with the girls
than play with the guys,” he tells us.
His toothy grin spreads across his face.
Sweat dripping, people tackling
was not my grandpa’s cup of tea.
Professional ballet dancer,
he traveled the world
spinning in the air like a falling snowflake.
Loud laughter lifts the lights when he sits at the table.

A mountain of rice spills over my dad’s plate.
The smell reminds him of the fields
and the burning Llocos Norte sun that kissed skin.
Rice falls to the table
like the sweat that splashed warm water
below his knees as he bent picking the grain.
Today, he comes home from work, his back aching,
with the same smile spread across his face,
his teeth sparkling like the rice.
His warm skin still curves at the ends of his smile,
always a sparkle in his welcoming eyes.
He taps his spoon, a steady rhythm to my grandpa’s stories.

I stare down at the grooves on the table.
My mind drifts to a distant memory:
an old Tlingit woman,
telling a story of totem poles.
I sit cross-legged like a pretzel
on the ground, leaning in, straining to hear.
The drums beat to my heartbeat.
She sings the native tongue, swaying back and forth.
Her blood doesn’t run through me, but it feels as if it does.
Dad and grandpa’s laughter pulls me back to earth.
I smile, mom says it looks like Gramp’s, a toothy grin.
Suddenly I’m glad that we live in a time that tolerates differences.