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our mothers
wove us the same
web of words
we crawled on once
to tell our children of

inside our guatas, our bellies
the same tastes
and flavors rose
to remind us of our past,
carne asada smells
rising to the backs of our skulls
tastes reaching the edges of tongues
twisting them &
turning them forward
until sweet seasonings
touched tongue tips
we both woke to bakery smells
blocks away
pan's flavor
met us as we rose out of beds
and kissed us goodbye
each day like the setting sun
each time
reminding us of the
beautiful words grandparents
would fly like kites
over kitchen tables
for us to wonder, look at and laugh
bread dipped in tea
was like a second
forever passing
transient and clear

stop,

reflect on it,
and ja, it is gone.