Pines

Franco came to power through a coup, to
prevent leftist reforms from trickling through
the government. He came from the same town as
my great-grandfather, Ito, though the area has
since exiled Franco’s remains. His body was taken
from the Valley of the Fallen and forsaken
to a small plot of land near Madrid. They tried
to erase his memory after half a million died
in the civil war—including three of my great
uncles, who fought to prevent a fascist state.

When Ito emigrated from Spain to the Lower East
Side, he often thought of his brother, the priest,
who was killed. As he walked along in his worn-
out shoes, he slowly began to mourn
his life before the war. Back in Galicia he could
nap under pine trees, where the sun would
shine through the resin, sending golden rays through
the branches. Where were the pine trees he grew
to love, and why was he forced to grieve
his past? It pained him that Franco didn’t leave
until forty years after his death, yet he
was uprooted as a young man and forced to flee.

By: Tim Montero

Tim Montero is an educator and poet living in Brooklyn, NY.

“Pines” is based on his great-grandfather’s experiences during the Spanish Civil War. It’s also meant to convey the feelings often associated with being displaced due to a historical figure or event. The title is a double entendre: it references the pine trees in Galicia, and also pining (longing) for a past life.