When I would visit Ohio, my grandma always said
certain things in Spanish, as to not flood my head.

I wish I understood that secret life she led
by interpreting her knowledge, I know to have been well read,

But now my striving hunger will never be quite fed,
for now those precious, foreign words are unforgivingly dead.

Oh, how I cry very often, at night while I’m in bed.
Regrets like these don’t go away, so I try to cope instead.

I’ll never forget her loving Spanish ***** (that memory’s never fled),
even though my nostalgic heart regretfully succumbs to dread.