Every other summer
Since I was three,
We would visit my great-grandmother
And gather under her Carambola tree.

At dawn the star fruit would glisten and
Hang serenely from their branches.
At dusk they would glow,
And shine on all of us praying below.

We would sit in the dim light,
The men reading by candlelight.
My grandmother would sit in her rocking chair
Happy that her whole family had gathered to talk and share.

¡Que feliz estoy!
What happiness! What joy!
Tears would twinkle in her eye,
As she would tell us of her land, the bible
And the beauty of the night sky.

While under the Carambola tree,
We would sit peacefully contemplating
The tree above us,
And it almost seemed like it was happy to have us
Beneath it.

We would stay there keeping the Carambola tree company,
until the fire’s last ember faded into the night
and while the fire’s last bits of smoke
mingled and danced around the tree;
My whole family drifted into sleep contently.