My grandmother comes into the kitchen were I am sitting down at the table reading a magazine. It is a dark winter day. Rain and sleet have been predicted. Abuela (granmother) shakes her head as she looks out the window of our basement apartment. All the feet that pass by are wearing boots. She pours hersefl a cup of coffe and sits down across from me. She sighs as if her heart is breaking. She shivers and pulls her sweater around her shoulders. Papi come in whistling. It is his day off. He will spend it with friends he khew from when he was a boy in the barrio. They will go to the park, even if it's raining or cold, and talk about the good times they had as children.
Abuela says, shivering, "María, let me tell you about my Island in the sun. The place wher I was born. A paradise."
Papi, frowning as he struggles to put on his boots, says, "I know, I know your paradise. I lived there once, remember? In San Juan, I couln't see the sun behind the buildings. I'll take the island of Manhattan anytime, if what I want is a paradise made of concrete."
Abuela, ignoring him, tapping my hand as she speaks.
I am trying to stay out of it, hiding behind my magazine: "Ay, bendita hija. When I was growing up on my Island, everyone treated each other nicely, like family. We shared what we had, and if you were poor, your neighbors helped you. La famila, los amigos, el amor, that's what mattered. People were not always angry; people were not cold like they are here in this clod place, these are cold people... the sun shines every day on my Island."
Papi, sounding angry: "The familiar on your Island made fun of me, called me el gringo because my Spanish sounded funny to their ears. They laughed when I complained that the mosquitoes were eating me alive. Fresh American blood, they joked, to fatten up our hungry bugs. I couldn't wait to come home to my country where people understand what I say, and the mosquitoes treat everyone the same."
Abuela, paying no attention to Papi, moving her chair close to mine: "When I was your age on my Island there was no crime, no violence, no drugs. The children respected the adults. We obeyed the teachers, the priest, the Pope, the governor, and our parents. The sun shines every day. On my Island..."
Papi: "I once had my wallet stolent in the plaza of your pueblo, Senora. I used to watch the news in the bedroom, while everyone else sat hypnotized by the romantic telenovelas in the living room. On my screen was the same world I see on our TV here: drugs, gun, angry people, and violence. Only different - the bad news in Spanish."
Abuela, not listening. Looking into her cup as if she were watching a movie: "The sun shines every day. On my Island..."
Papi, in a mocking tone of voice: "The sun shines every day, that's true. While I was unhappy, missing my friends here, while I was lonely, the sun shone every day and it was 110 degrees in the shade."
Abuela: "On my Island..."
Before she can finish her sentence, the lights flash on and off, and then we hear the gasping sounds of electrical things shutting down and darkness. We hear the sound of feet running on the sidewalk above our heads. Abuela gets a candle from a kitchen drawer, places it on the table, and lights it. There is another roll of thunder and the sound of puoring rain. I hear Papi opening the pantry door to get his flashlight. The telephone begins to ring. I run to get it, grateful that is has interrupted a culture clash I have been hearing all of my life. It is the old battle between Island Puerto Rican and mainland Puerto Rican. It is what finally drove my parents apart.
One the telephone, I hear Dona Segura's shaky voice asking me in Spanish if Papi can come see about a smell like gas in her apartment. Everyone else is away for the day. She is blind. She does not even know that it is dark. Abuela nods. I know she will go stay with Dona Segura.
Papi, already dressed for his day of freedom, listens to me tell Dona Segura that she will be right up. I look at my father by the light of the canlde. Both of us sigh in unison, a big, deep, melodramatic, Puerto Rican sigh. Abuela's canlde is blown out by our breath. Then there is the sound of three people laughing together in the dark.
