mothertongue

My grandmother turned 75 today.
And just before lunch, the house filled up.
Cars full of brothers and sisters
and their wives and husbands
stopped outside her door
and emptied into the living room.

They distributed news of
children and grandchildren
all the while thinking
of something completely different
of medicines in cabinets
waiting to be taken
of drivers who needed lunch
of taps and switches and gas stoves,
all of which needed to be turned off tight.

They posed for the camera,
broke into groups
drank, ate and ate some more
sang and cut cake
(which was not non-chocolate
but appreciated nonetheless)
and talked.

They spoke to each other
in a language that belongs across the border
with a culture they left behind over 60 years ago
that's now almost forgotten
if millennium versions of songs from the 80s
are anything to go by.

They talked and talked some more.
until it was time for tea,
which actually meant it was time to leave.
And then got back into cars,
ready for the 4-hour journey home.

Hours later their voices
still rang in my mind.
The chatter of aunts and uncles
speaking in a language
that feels familiar enough
for me believe that I can almost follow.