And though of all of us my grandmother is the most sad, so sad that when she looks down at her feet resignedly - as she often does - every pore of her seems aflame with sadness, it is also summer in her garden. The gardenia, which she is partial to, is in full bloom. The mangoes have been plucked and a small amount of honey was brought down for the first time in my memory from the mango tree outside her house.
It seems a good time as any for a bit of Neruda.
Ode to Sadness
Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.
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