My Grandmother is a fabulous woman. Regal, and ancient. She is a chola, dresses in the traditional style, with multiple colorful pleated skirts, layered, a shawl and a bowler hat to top it off. Two long braids down the back, tied together to prevent them from getting in the way with a string with two miniature pompoms, like on the ends of llama hats. Haha, you know the ones.
Her wrinkles wink at you, her age is nonexistant, but her wisom speaks nonverbally through her eyes. A sage.
Despite her great age, she comes on our adventures too sometimes, and everyday she climbs the four floors up and down to the apartment in the family house where she and Abuelo live, at the top, the penthouse if you will, with a patio and a magnificant view of La Paz from the hills of Achachachicala, a place with far too many c´s and a´s in its name. She, like other cholas, carries great burdens on her back wrapped in vibrantly colored textiles, reds and oranges, sun colors predominate. You never really know entirely all shes got in there. Probably some crazy stuff. Fairy powders, rabbits feet. Who knows?
And she always wants to feed me. What could be a better abuela?
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