“Yep. Señora Gutierrez passed a few years ago, and her house had fallen into such bad repair it was safer to take it down. Your friends came in, and over the course of two months, made it look like this.”
“I have good friends,” I say, smiling.
“Yes, you do.”
I let myself out of the SUV, and before I reach the porch, my grandmother pushes open the front door.
I swallow thickly, realizing I’ve been putting off this moment to avoid what I see in her face. Pain. So much pain and regret. And so much love.
“Antoñito!” she shouts and throws her arms around me.
I never thought of her as tall, but I practically tower over her, and I don’t tower over anyone. Her arms are strong and soft, and suddenly, another pair of arms surround me.
“Ant,” my grandfather says in his deep soothing voice. “You have returned to us. What a blessing.”
Last night, looking out at the beautiful waters of the Caribbean, I cried more than I ever have in my entire life. It was a crazy mixture of sadness, grief, and, weirdly enough, gratitude. I’m crazy lucky, and the thought makes me cry so hard I don’t know what to do with myself.
I thought I’d cried every tear in my body, but surrounded by my grandparents, I have several more to give. As do they.
Yaya and Emil, her husband, make their way out of the house just a few seconds later, and suddenly, it’s one big embarrassing group hug in the middle of the street. A few neighbors join us, several patting me on my shoulder, praising God, telling me how happy they are I’m safe and sound.
After a few moments, I get overwhelmed, but Erik and Gael read it immediately. Gael steps up to the crowd of people around me and takes my hand, effectively drawing me away from the epicenter.
“As you can imagine, he’s been through a lot, so we’re going to go inside and have a quiet dinner.”
Everyone nods in understanding, just as kind as I remember them. I look around at the simplicity of the place and understand why my mom felt she couldn’t stay. I sometimes wonder, though, if she had regrets when she was all alone in that big compound with her father-in-law.
Abuela takes my hand and practically drags me up the steps into her house. I inhale deeply and grin at the scents of Fabuloso—Abuela’s floor cleaner of choice—and spicy, warm posole. I take another inhale and…
“Oh my God—are those your tortillas?” I ask, rushing to the kitchen counter where a pair of my abuela’s handwoven tortilleros—tortilla holders—sit, steam rising gently from them.
“Of course, nieto.”
Store-bought corn tortillas are stale and fall apart when you make them into a taco. Homemade corn tortillas, on the other hand, are so soft and taste so fresh I can’t imagine anyone ever hating them.
I sneak a hot tortilla from its hiding place, chewing it as I take in the expanded space. The place looks the same but different. The brightly colored walls, the decorations from local artists, and the wood carving of the Last Supper hanging over the indigenous altar my grandparents keep with offerings to the deceased. It’s every good thing from my childhood, even if the ofrenda includes pictures of my mother and dried daisies along with dried marigolds.
Most people only put up the altar for Dia de los Muertos, but my grandmother always wanted our ancestors to feel at home, regardless of the time of year. Despite having more room, the mixed style of my grandparents’ home still feels cozy and warm.
My grandmother pushes the tortillero into my hands. “Here. Help me set the table.”
I do as asked, finding the utensils where I last saw them, setting down soup spoons older than I am with dinner napkins my grandmother sewed and embroidered.
My grandmother carries the enormous cazuela—her ancient painted clay soup pot—from the stove, setting it on a metal trivet on the low bar between the kitchen and the dining room. Grabbing the ladle she’s had since I was a little boy, she spoons hearty servings into her fancy Talavera bowls.
Yaya slices the limes and puts them in smaller bowls around the table. Abuelo says a prayer of thanks, his voice cracking halfway through. Erik and Gael, sitting on either side of me, grab my hands.
Even though God and I aren’t pals, I say “Amen” in deference to my grandfather. We start to eat, but it’s quiet. Like maybe no one knows what to say to the returning survivor.
“Somebody tell a joke,” Emil says, smiling at me. “It’s too serious in here.”
Gael sends me a wicked grin. “I’ve got one. What’s the difference between a Texas tornado and a redneck divorce?”
I laugh because I know this one. “Why you gotta make fun of Texas?”
He shrugs. “Answer the question.”
“Doesn’t matter. Either way, someone’s losing a trailer.”
