Grandmother’s rickety house leans so, it seems in danger

From high winds. The For Sale sign rattles on its chains.

New construction and McMansions stare blankly, soulless.

At least the jacarandas remain as silent witnesses, strewing

Joyous lavender in equal sprays across gray curbs and shiny luxury cars.

The neighbor hobbles to his mail box, Don Quixote on a quest.

Age has twisted his body into a telltale question mark.

 “Do you still speak only Spanish?” I blurt

Like the laughing girl he taught to eat persimmons.

He lifts his head a notch to catch a glimpse of grown-up me.

”"El tiempo gana en todos los idiomas, mi amiga.”*

He chortles into his chest. “¡Que te vaya bien, Dulcinea!”

*Time wins in all languages, my friend.

Have a good day, Dulcinea.