A Fairy Tale

The first time my grandfather died

only his mother mourned him.

Her son’s new love had a nose too wide

to be Castilian, mestizo curls too thickly

framed her face. Mostly, though, she hated

how in love he was. How clear it was

that one day he’d leave her side.

And so, the day my grandparents said

their wedding vows he died to her.

How many times I studied her photograph,

her straight dark parted hair, her white skin

and fine nose. Her anger like an apple

in a story that we tell, passed down

from child to child. Too lovely to resist,

we’ve grown to like its bitterness.