a million moths.

on her tip-toes the other day yanking tangerines off the tree. “they’re not ready to eat,” my mom warned her. “give it a couple months.” but my grandma magdalena. she does things her way.

she runs (more like waddles) to the kitchen when the telephone rings, gets everyone riled up: “hurry, hurry … come, come … the animal is crying!”

she’s not to be disturbed from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m., telenovela time on channel 34. she sits in the softest spot on the softest couch and hardly moves. except when lovers kiss. that’s when she looks away like a little girl and calls them names. “descarados. i’m no good for those things anymore.”

78 years of living in a tiny village in el salvador will do that to a girl.

now she’s here. chubby feet in cotton ballerina flats. pink socks hiked high like stockings. floral robes that hide a tummy that carried 10 children, 11 if you count the one that didn’t make it. for thirty something years grandma magdalena was married. to a great man that turned evil when he drank. on her left pinky, a reminder of the night he came at her with an ax.

“the late manuel” she calls him. she hasn’t danced with another man — with anyone — since he died. she says she never will.

* photo: home. february 2009.