| Of the ladies at Daniela’s
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| You can tell it’s from the eighties
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| By the volume of their hair
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| There’s Usnavi, just a baby
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| ‘Eighty-seven, Halloween
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| If it happened on this block, Abuela was there
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| Every afternoon I came
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| She’d make sure I did my homework
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| She could barely write her name
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| But even so…
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| She would stare at the paper
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| And tell me
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| «Bueno, let’s review
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| Why don’t you tell me
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| Everything you know.»
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| In this album there’s a picture
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| Of Abuela in Havana
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| She is holding a rag doll
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| Unsmiling, black and white
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| I wonder what she’s thinking
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| Does she know that she’ll be leaving
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| For the city on a cold, dark night?
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| And on the day they ran
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| Did she dream of endless summer?
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| Did her mother have a plan?
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| Or did they just go?
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| Did somebody sit her down and say
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| «Claudia, get ready, to leave
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| Behind everything you know»?
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| Everything I know
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| What do I know?
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| In this folder there’s a picture
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| From my high school graduation
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| With the program, mint condition
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| And a star beside my name
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| Here’s a picture of my parents
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| As I left for California |
| She saved everything we gave her
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| Every little scrap of paper
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| And our lives are in these boxes
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| While the woman who held us is gone
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| But we go on, we grow, so…
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| Hold tight, Abuela, if you’re up there
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| I’ll make you proud of everything I know!
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| Thank you, for everything I know |