Grandma Pia
Text by Maria Arimany

When I grow up, I want to be like Grandma Pia. I want to live near the forest and go out looking for mushrooms in the fall and asparagus in the spring. I want to be able to say that bad weather is coming because my knees hurt, and I want to sit by the fire crocheting, knitting stitches, one after the other, without thinking about anything, just Knit, Purl, Knit, Purl, Knit, Purl. Sometimes I think that if all the stitches Grandma knitted had been done one after the other, like a little chain, I could go around the world and tie a bow at the top, like a present. When I grow up, I want to be like Grandma Pia and not care about the wrinkles that cross my face from top to bottom and from left to right like the sun and the heat crack the earth that was once damp, spongy, and fresh. I want to have a soft chin that trembles when they make me laugh and show off a pierced mouth with few teeth and little hunger. I want to walk around the house in a bathrobe and go out to take out the trash in slippers without worrying about who's watching. I want to have a bunch of granddaughters who want to touch my skin, who hang from my arms and who rock it with their hands like a seesaw. When I grow up, I want to be like Grandma Pia. I want to say "crayon" instead of "candy," "busón" instead of "mailbox," "iaios" instead of "grandparents." I want to spoil the granddaughters and take a candy from behind their ears and say softly, "Here, but don't tell her, Mom, this secret is yours and Grandma's."