Adelina, Aida y Manuel
26 de Mayo, 2017
Two Gardenias and a Finca Heart
I am Doña Niña’s granddaughter. She taught me about herbs. My dad taught me how to grow food—the same way he taught Aida.
Her belly would shake with laughter when she sent me to the garden to collect herbs for cooking, and I came back with a common weed or something completely off.
“Mera, huele esto bien pa’ que no se te olvide, nena,” she’d say, nearly shoving the herbs up my nose so I’d remember the scent. I had to learn the difference between ginger and grass, between limoncillo and whatever else was just growing wild.
I’d spend hours in her garden trying to identify plants, or picking flowers just to distract her if I’d failed again to catch the chicken or brought the wrong herb.
My Papi always had a funny or curious story for everything. He taught me about the moon and its phases—what foods liked which moon. He’d say things like,
“The plantain never liked to grow near the pumpkin. Too clingy—pegajosa uy.”
Of course, I later learned the real agricultural logic behind it. But Grandma and I liked his version better.
Our bellies would shake with laughter.
He knew how to make us laugh en la finca.
I found and formed myself there—in the finca, with the plants, the animals, the soil, the flowers, and the earth.
This is me.
There is nothing more transparent and real about me than this.
That’s why today, when I was called to help with a garden and a yard, my heart felt so happy. I wasn’t cleaning a house—I was planting.
This is my shit, I said to myself.
I kicked off my shoes, touched the ground, and began singing:
“Dos gardenias para ti... con ellas quiero decir...”
while fixing pots and digging holes.
That song is one of my Dad’s favorites.
My Grandma loved it too.
When I finished, I sent my Dad some pictures—of course I need his approval, his pride in my work. I asked him what he was doing, hoping he was gardening too. Pretending, maybe even believing, that by both of us touching the ground at the same time, we’d be close—like the old days together at the finca.
Like maybe distance could dissolve for a little while.
“Oh Papi, estoy muerta.”
If only I could clap my hands and have you appear right here.
The same way cucubanos (fireflies) remind me of Grandma.
Like two gardenias…
“Ponles toda tu atención, que serán tu corazón y el mío.”
I really miss those two.
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