Poetry: "Vieja" by Melody Rose Serra





Dad always called you vieja. When I found out what that means, I was confused — for you were

brimming with life, you didn’t seem old to me. I later learned it was a term of endearment. But it

is true that you were wise, so wise. You immigrated to the United States, not knowing anyone,

climbing purple mountain majesties. Here in this new land, your legacy — a family grows. As

an abuela, you let me live in my imaginary world of books and at the same time in a world where

I knew you were always going to be there for me. On Saturdays you would drive all the way

from Los Angeles to The Valley, taking surface streets because you hated driving on the

freeway. You would bring a box full of empanadas, medialunas, and milhojas. Dad would come

out to help you unload the car and say “¡Hola vieja!







Melody’s passion is teaching and empowering others by sharing what she has learned. She helped launch an arts and crafts program at a children's hospital and also taught at San Quentin State Prison. Melody hopes to inspire youth to explore and expand their creativity through web development, writing, and art.


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