You can tell by her hands – gnawed nails and varicose veins – that she works.
You can tell by her face – stoic with ageless ardor — she loves her work.
A mother runs a restaurant from her home; tables stand where her boys played
while she serves familial history in colorful peppers framed like artwork.
My uncle and I sit beside the fireplace. A worn portrait of a weathered man
with a thinning crown and gentle jaw sits atop the mantel in the rotting framework.
Sombreros of dead men decorate the walls to commemorate the laborious lineage
of a simple family, hoping to maintain their name through their hard work.
Sons working for their mothers care nothing for the family business.
She pays them well and isn’t too stern; all the same, they hate their work.
The boys hate living above the restaurant. They hate strangers eating in the old
living room. They hate feeling trapped and hate having been born into their work.
She tries to imagine what her father would say to her boys if he were here to see them.
He used to hold them each and pray to the saint with their name, before going to work.
A daughter builds upon her father’s passion. Her love for the constant ruckus
of a full kitchen and packed house never waned; for her, it was more than just work.
You can tell by her face – stoic with ageless ardor — she loves her work.
A mother runs a restaurant from her home; tables stand where her boys played
while she serves familial history in colorful peppers framed like artwork.
My uncle and I sit beside the fireplace. A worn portrait of a weathered man
with a thinning crown and gentle jaw sits atop the mantel in the rotting framework.
Sombreros of dead men decorate the walls to commemorate the laborious lineage
of a simple family, hoping to maintain their name through their hard work.
Sons working for their mothers care nothing for the family business.
She pays them well and isn’t too stern; all the same, they hate their work.
The boys hate living above the restaurant. They hate strangers eating in the old
living room. They hate feeling trapped and hate having been born into their work.
She tries to imagine what her father would say to her boys if he were here to see them.
He used to hold them each and pray to the saint with their name, before going to work.
A daughter builds upon her father’s passion. Her love for the constant ruckus
of a full kitchen and packed house never waned; for her, it was more than just work.