He limped towards the shack
As evening shadows followed all the way,
Set down the hoe, companion of the day,
And from the thorny flesh of prickly pears
He plucked four fruits,
He plucked them with bare hands,
My old grandpa, for me to enjoy
The old bowl, hand-carved from steely brier,
Was resting on the creaky, unsteady bench;
Its surface, black from age, oil and spice
Was waiting for the company of a meal
I sat on the log stool by the right side
Watching the salad drop into the bowl:
White onions, red tomatoes, basil green,
The hot peppers relished by grandpa,
A piece that found its rest on the clay floor
I cringed when I saw that fiery green
My taste buds recalled its painful sting;
I hesitated, but hunger gave me nerve,
I took tomatoes pieces I thought untouched
By the dreaded green, had no success;
I sipped water after every bite,
But from the heat my tongue had no respite
When the bowl resumed its peaceful rest,
My grandpa brushed the prickly pears
And cut them into thick and juicy slices
“Eat them,” he said, with the sweetest smile
“They will refresh your mouth just for a while.”
Years have now gone by
My grandpa is watching from above
As I cut tomatoes into a gleaming bowl
In the spotless kitchen of my home
No onions or hot peppers are in sight,
Only tomatoes, and to my taste are mild;
Then I remember, as my taste buds delight:
I wish my tongue could feel the old stinging bite