coffee & bacon

       As I cook my usual breakfast on my days off a song comes on and it takes me back to days filled with the laughter of my grandparents. There's a song by Celia Cruz that's named “Te Busco” which was one of my grandmothers favorite. She was so fond of this song and too embarrassed to sing it she would shyly hum it. I stand there in front of my stove, just the way she used to. With one hand on my hip and a wooden spoon in the other. It's something about the combination of coffee and bacon that takes me back to that moment.

       I stand there in another realm, imagining her raspy voice talk to me with her broken English and beautiful, yet somehow harsh Spanish. She would constantly switch back and forth from English to Spanish and back to English and then back to Spanish! It was as confusing at that last sentence. Eventually, I caught on and learned how to switch with her and predict when she was going to use an English word she had learned earlier that week. She would purposely seek out ways to incorporate that word into any conversation.

As she stood there flipping her tortillas so effortlessly I anxiously waited for her to tell me a story about when she was young. She would always tell me stories about when her and my grandfather were young and the books they could write are in the thousands! All of the hardships they endured when first coming here to the U.S. All the love they found in the limited resources they had. One of her favorite stories to tell me, which she told often; is when she first drove and the only car she only drove.

       When she was younger and my grandfather was able to buy them a VW Bug, she drove it. Not often because she didn't have a drivers license, but when she did, she would drive really slow and my grandfather always was afraid that the police would pull her over. The joy in her eyes always made me happy to the point of teary eyes. As she got older and sicker, I asked her to tell me that story over and over, hoping to see that same joy. It was there, just not as bright. She knew how much I loved that story so she forced that smile and tried to remember it exactly the way she told me it so many times before. Not long before she left this world, she called me into her room and gave me something. It was a key. I didn't know what it was for. I didn't ask, I just kept it safe. Then months before her passing she told me that story one more time and then she told me that the key that I wore as a necklace was the same key from that very same car. I keep it with me always. I still have it and I hope to tell that story to someone one day and they find the same joy I do so that I can give them that key.

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That memory, triggered by coffee and bacon. Even though my grandparents didn't have much, I never realized we were poor because I always had food in my belly, clothes on my back and surrounded by so much love and memories. It's because of them that I can express into words what's in my heart and my mind. Because of them, I am limitless.