They Call Me Güero. David Bowles

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      OUR HOUSE

      Our house wasn’t ready all at once.

      Our house took years to grow,

      like a Monterrey oak gone from acorn

      to tall and broad and shady tree.

      My parents saved for years,

      bought a nice lot on the edge of town,

      drew up the plans with Tío Mike.

      One year the family poured the foundation,

      then the next these concrete walls went up.

      At last my father built a sturdy roof,

      and in we moved,

      finishing it room by room,

      everyone lending a hand,

      every spare penny spent

      para hacernos un hogar—

      a home that glows warm with love.

      Now it’s like a bit of our souls

      has fused with the block and wood.

      I can’t imagine life without this place—

      on these tiles I learned to walk.

      Here are my height marks,

      with fading dates,

      higher and higher.

      Oh, all the laughs and tears

      we’ve shared at that table!

      All the cool movies we’ve watched

      sitting on that couch!

      And here’s my room,

      filled with all my favorite stuff,

      sitting in the shade of the anacua tree

      I once helped to plant.

      A modest home, sure,

      but inside its cozy walls we celebrate

      all the riches that matter.