Ribbon Time: The Week Before

The women of the family still immersed in their prayers,

As the shrine surrounds them with patience and half-darkness,

Between the murmurs and the two of us

Stand iron fences, a dusty ground and some blue tiles.

Almost visible tears in his eyes,

Not sadness, just the wind - my father.

Nothing to be afraid of, he sighs, just a red ribbon.

My eleven years old mind gets offended.

The older brothers of mine clear as a schoolbook:

Sterilized hypodermic syringe, a government certified paramedic,

Centuries old traditions and our young, modern republic.

My friends jubilant, nasty firecrackers:

The barber, the old barber slices it,

With his dull, rusty razor, shaky hands, hairy, wrinkled!

Emerging from the shrine

My great-grandmother, my grand-mother

Black shadows, ghosts, vague.

My mother lovingly crisp

As she pulls down her scarf - soft, white.

My father taps the end of his cigarette

On the light brown packet.

Tilting slightly my ceremonial cap

With a smile hesitant between mischief and tenderness,

What about a blue one, he says,

Instead of red?