I haven’t historically done a great job of taking time to look through old journals. When I do, though, I sometimes find the kind of stuff that creates a knot in my throat.
My beautiful Puerto Rican grandmother, who we affectionately called “Mamita,” passed away April 17, 2019. Since then, I’ve written more poems about her than I can count or remember. Actually, my very first fiction novel (a novel-in-verse), titled If Hurricanes Were Flowers, is a direct result of moving through my grief after losing her.
My most recent nonfiction book, Love Has a Story, also features poems about Mamita. One of them is called “Cuando hace calor”—a poem in conversation with the song “Paciencia y Fe” by Lin-Manuel Miranda (sung by Olga Merediz) in the film In the Heights (2021). I specifically wrote to the film’s version of this song rather than the Broadway version (although that one brings me to tears, too) because of the visuals the movie provided that reflected something of my Mamita’s migration story. This and the way the film includes Abuela Claudia’s line: “We had to assert our dignity in small ways. Little details that tell the world we are not invisible.” I see my abuela in Abuela Claudia.
How Many Drafts Till Done?
When I decided to grab a few of my journals the other day, I stumbled upon the first draft of my poem “Cuando hace calor.” It’s . . . all over the place. But it got me thinking: how many drafts did I write before I landed on the poem as it is today? I truly don’t remember (the first draft in my journal was some time in 2022 when the weather was starting to warm up).
When my daughter asked me how many drafts I wrote of my novel, If Hurricanes Were Flowers, I told her something similar: “I have no idea. I just kept writing, then revising, then rewriting, then seeking feedback, and writing again. Maybe it was 100 drafts?” I wasn’t exaggerating. What counts as a draft, anyway? And when do you know the piece is done? Is it ever done?
I think I lean more on the side of our artwork never really being “done,” in part because I believe in the resurrection. I believe that on the New Earth, we will have ample opportunity to reengage our own art, as well as the art of others.
I look forward to revising the poetic biblical theology of Love Has a Story after many conversations with Jesus and old and new friends. Maybe I’ll create a second, third, fourth edition of it because I’ll be forever learning and growing.
I look forward to reworking If Hurricanes Were Flowers, whatever that might look like, without any hindrance of chronic pain and fatigue. I especially look forward to not worrying about things like book sales (or people asking me about that instead of just experiencing my work for themselves).
Cuando Hace Calor
Anyway, here’s the first draft of “Cuando Hace Calor” I found in an old journal:
Like I said, all over the place. (And apparently stained by, most likely, a dripping popsicle of my then-6-year-old daughter).
And now, here’s the poem as it is in my book, Love Has a Story. Maybe this draft will be the one I’ll forever consider “done.” Maybe not. I’ll check in with Mamita about it in the resurrection.
Calor, calor, calor cuando hace calor I’m transported to your back porch whiffs of tangerines, grapefruits, oranges echoes of cousins squealing “hide and seek!” you’d scold us if we forgot to kiss your cheek is this breeze in my hair the same air from then? Did it travel from the Caribbean like you did back when your Mami died and you were just a kid? You came from the warmth to the streets of the North back and forth—PR, New York. You told me once, “I was just . . . there. I never felt important.” Shouts and sirens, no silence unheard in Manhattan’s masses save for peace in the pews of the Catholic Masses you’d take yourself to. Did you imagine you’d forever feel invisible, little? Did you know good stories never stop in the middle? By the end the hospice could barely fit us all in that room singing alabanzas for the gift of you. You were an orphan of sorts who made a home. 48 Winding Ridge was your throne. The best sueñitos are intangible. Legacies of love left to spread. Never dead.
Bonus (Video)
I secretly (sorry, Mamita!) recorded some of my conversations with Mamita in the last couple years of her life. Here’s a clip that also inspired this poem (I deeply miss her voice):
Make sure to get your copy of If Hurricanes Were Flowers. One for you, one for a young person you know, and one for your local library or bookstore. :) I think it’ll be worth your time to laugh, cry, sigh, and smile in the couple hours it takes you to read this novel-in-verse. Thanks, as always, for your support!
I love the line about you all barely fitting into that hospice room. This is what really matters. Lord, may it be so. Really beautiful, Quina.
Bello. All of it. Thank you for sharing your heart!