LUMPIA AND LISTENING

I’ve lost count of all the 
Lumpias I have rolled with these hands.
I’m unsure how many
Lumpia have seen the inside of this belly.
I can’t express the taste of home without 
Leading with love for l u m p i a .

I don’t know the number of
Smiles these cheeks have
Expressed post consumption or the
Growing amount of smiles 

I’ve encountered while
Witnessing people try
Lumpia for the
First time or the

Second or the
Tenth or the
Fiftieth consecutive or the
Few thousands that add up over a lifetime.

I’ve lost track of how many first times I have e x p e r i e n c e d .
I don’t know how many minutes it takes to
Make m e m o r i e s  or 
How many I may have let slip into the ocean
Between now and then;
Who and when.

I do know my senses
Still respond to the
Ones I recall often.

I create with these hands to call in the

Ones who haven’t been forgotten.
Smells of lumpia wafting
In front of my eye lids –

I feel the anticipation  still
Tingling my tastebuds the
Moment I see those
Golden brown layers sizzling to perfection.

Worth the wait that comes with
Preparation and process and patience and
Painstakingly waiting for the rice to finish.

I’ll never forget sitting around the kitchen table 
3 generations
Scooping,
Sculpting,
Perfecting
Each handcrafted roll.

Placing one 
After another 
On top of 
Each other.

                                         h
                                         i 
                                         g 
                                         h
                                         e
                                         s
Ma’s wall always the  t

Lola’s line always the l   o   n   g   e   s   t and

               M
              ine, 
         a triangle
      p o i n t i n g

          t o w a r d s  t h e  s k y.

I remember 3 generations sitting at the table often.
I couldn’t tell you all the stories shared while
Stacking lumpias and 
Stuffing freezer bags full but
I’ll tell you later about the laughter and how
I really miss the
Feelings that came after 
Figuring out
What was being expressed in
Between breaths and the
Sounds of crispiness forming and Lola smiling and winking and
Ma saying “tapos na”  –  it’s finished.

I’m still learning the words
Shared around the table
Forgotten on my tongue, yet
Familiar to my ears
Lingering echos
Still felt in my body 
After all these years

When I recall the 
Moments I felt lucky to be making
Lumpias with loved ones
Memories flood the forefront of
My mind as I begin to size up the
Distance traveled to be at this table
Here in ameriKa at the  s a m e  time

The laughs, the cries, the sighs
Confined to internalized ties,
Language and culinary divides
Influenced by the colonized mind
Connection to an ancestral appetite
No longer being quieted 
Despite a lack of sounds and syllables to describe it

I still don’t talk as much as I listen or as much as I long to understand.
When rolling lumpias with 3 generations present, I learned
Listening is a gift and a must.

Laughter is unleashed in between batches and the
Way lips smack differently in 
Waray than they do in Tagalog and the
Ways they don’t do in English or in the
Español that’s embedded is
A reminder of what can’t be taken away because of
Language barriers, but rather what is added to the mix by Language bearers and the generations that communicate with Different tongues under the same roof they share.

Lumpia brought us together in ways language couldn’t.
I don’t have any recollect of how many
Lumpias I had to roll before

I realized the ways
Some people can say
More with their hands than they can

With words. And how
Love can’t be expressed
With words not yet
Learned and

More times than not –

3 generations at any table will
Speak more than three languages and

No matter how many words
People may have between them

Meanings are defined and derived from the
Vibrations of what goes  u n s p o k e n.

I can’t help but notice –
No matter how many different
Combinations of lumpias I make by myself,

None compare to the taste of
Lumpias made with 3 generations at the same table.
That’s 6 hands generating love
Able to feed a soul for a lifetime.
Wisdom woven across lifelines.
Someday we’ll have more time and
Perhaps more common words to describe the
Memories we will make on the other side.

Sometimes I wish I could
Rewind the conversations, the
Looks on all our faces, the

Ways we would laugh when
Pops would ask for another plate, the

Days when 3 generations sat at the kitchen table 

Scooping,
Sculpting,
Perfecting
Each handcrafted roll.

Placing one 
After another 
On top of 
Each other.

                                         h
                                         i 
                                         g 
                                         h
                                         e
                                         s
Ma’s wall always the  t

Lola’s line always the l   o   n   g   e   s   t   and

              M
             ine, 
        a triangle
      p o i n t i n g

          t o w a r d s  t h e  s k y.

I don’t know what happened to my knees the
Moment Ma told me Lola transitioned or when
My voice finally came back into my body.

All I remember is the taste of l u m p i a .