Tamales

The sun has yet to open its eyes
yet mom is in the kitchen kneading masa.
The manteca glows iridescent on her fingers
as we talk about life and laugh at even more trivial things.
Marvin Gaye is playing in the background;
mom sings with a smile.

I gather the hojas that are soft from soaking overnight
and ready the carne that has patiently bathed
in red chile for two days.
Although, at this point, I could do this with my eyes closed,
I take in mom’s instructions as though it is the first time.
“Make sure the hojas are silky side up,” she says.

I continue. There is nothing quick about this process.
Ritual is never rushed. Tradition takes generations to mold.
Prayer is always conducted with purpose.
What is god, but Corn Mother resting in your hand?
What is heaven, but your maker bestowing creation stories
onto you as you root yourself in a future that vows to never forget its past.