Tamales

I know it is that time of year again
When I walk into the kitchen and she,
With a smile, is hunched over three,
Three pots with husks waiting to drain
Off water and she sweats tears of delight
While she dances around the table.
Dances and dances like she is able
To sway and promenade well through the night.
Yes her hands are covered in masa
From turning and churning until precise,
“Was your grandma who gave me this advice,”
She says as I watch her holding my tasa,
A tasa filled with warm chocolate that
Makes my lips vibrate as I touch the tip.
Into the pot each tamale they slip
And cook for an hour while we chat.