Abuela Lucy made me get Heinekens for her, she made me sit there, and watch her as she glugged down suds, and the soaps that watched her as she lay, in a dutch-infused state. Is she dreaming? And of what? Tall brown men in bone colored suits and Sunday hats, crooning while smothering the strings with lust. I watched her uptown feet, that made sure all the Dominican boys eat, I watched her lay harsh words on an ego, undress confidence with a shifty eye roll. I heard her words fill rooms with audible color, splashes of bright smiles and praise Jesus’ soul.