Her poor English, the good castellano she wants to teach me,

her roped pearls to my ripped jeans, Cafés con leche to hand. 

Fridays at 10am, we start with family trees too big for our pages.

I fail to conjugate the past, struggle to roll my r’s. Arroz.  Correr. 

She teaches me dirty jokes in Spanish, asks me to translate them.  

For her turn, she brings out booklets she’s kept since the 70s,

eager to rehearse the kind of English she likes: Excuse me sir, 

could you help with my luggage? Our classes spill into the lunches

she loves to give, tattooed personal trainers alongside retired priests. 

We learn to negotiate our differences, debate the loss of manners,

the role of a wife, whether only girls are born with the skill of self-sacrifice. 

I do not agree. No estoy de acuerdo.  She asks if she can call me darling,

offers me her favourite refrain, la vida es dura pero siempre bonita,

chants back her translation, Life is hard but always beautiful.