My Beloved World Read Online Free PDF

therecord, as if he wishes someone would show up with a guitar. Instead, sooner or later someone would lift the needle off the record, cutting off Los Panchos mid-song. The voices in the living room would settle to a hush, and all eyes would turn to Abuelita, resting on the couch, having cleaned up and taken a turn at dominoes. When the music stopped, that was the cue for those in the kitchen to crowd in the doorway of the living room. Nelson and I would scramble to a spot under the table where we could see. It was time for poetry.
    Abuelita stands up, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. When she opens them and begins to recite, her voice is different. Deeper, and vibrant in a way that makes you hold your breath to listen.
                    
Por fin, corazón, por fin
,
                    
alienta con la esperanza …
    I couldn’t understand the words exactly, but that didn’t matter. The feeling of the poem came through clearly in the music of Abuelita’s voice and in the look of faraway longing in the faces of her listeners.
    Her long black hair is tied back simply and her dress is plain, but to my eyes she looks more glamorous than anyone trying to be fancy. Now her arms stretch wide and her skirt swirls as she turns, reaching for the whole horizon. You can almost see green mountains, the sea and the sky unfolding, the whole world being born as she lifts her hand. As it turns, her fingers spread open like a flower blooming in the sun.
                    
… y va la tierra brotando
                    
como Venus de la espuma
.
    I look around. She has the whole room mesmerized. Titi Carmen wipes a tear.
                    
Para poder conocerla
                    
es preciso compararla
,
                    
de lejos en sueños verla;
                    
y para saber quererla
                    
es necesario dejarla
.
                    
¡Oh! no envidie tu belleza
,
                    
de otra inmensa población
                    
el poder y la riqueza
,
                    
que allí vive la cabeza
,
                    
y aquí vive el corazón
.
                    
Y si vivir es sentir
,
                    
y si vivir es pensar …
    The poems that Abuelita and her listeners loved were often in the key of nostalgia and drenched in rosy, sunset hues that obscured the poverty, disease, and natural disasters that they had left behind. Not that their yearnings were unfounded. As the poet says, “To know it, you need to see it in dreams from afar. To learn how to love it, you need to leave it.” Even those of the generations following who were born here, who have settled decisively into a mainland existence and rarely have reason to visit the island—even we have corners of our hearts where such a nostalgia lingers. All it takes to spark it is a poem, or a song like “En Mi Viejo San Juan.”
    The parties always wound down late. The stragglers had to be fed; Charlie and Tony, Titi Gloria’s sons, might stop by after their Saturday night dates. Most others would say their good-byes and go home, like Tío Vitín and Titi Judy, who typically left carrying their kids, my cousins Lillian and Elaine, fast asleep, drooped over a shoulder.
    But for those who remained, what often happened next was the climax of the evening. The
velada
was something that no one ever talked about; adults would change the subject casually if a kid asked a question. The kitchen table would be cleared and moved into the living room. A couple of neighbors from downstairs would appear, joining the party quietly. My mother and Titi Gloria would retire to the kitchen. Mami thought the whole business was silly and didn’t want any part of it. Titi Gloria was actually scared of the spirits.
    The remaining kids—Nelson, Miriam,