Sunday Morning

I heard the squeaking just as I was rounding the corner. A big brown wooden rocking chair going back and forth at 8:35am on a Sunday morning. "Buuuueenasss!" He said to me from behind little glasses that perched on the tip of his nose. His shirt was off, as always, and he was rocking, belly out, heart open, in the sun.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, a smile from my own inner belly, and pulled open the screen door to his left.

The room was full of faces of different shades and shapes, but all with the same eyes. Great Grandma was in the kitchen making tortillas. One of her daughters was by the sink washing dishes and the rest of the boys were scattered around the room. Grandpa came in slowly behind me, cane in hand, as he found his was to the sofa. He plopped down and pressed on the tele. The sound of that home-video show where animals do funny things played in the background of the brothers' conversations.

I "helped" Grams make some tortillas, and by "helped" I mean delayed the eating experience quite a bit longer. Anyways, the brothers found it amusing.

They are all grown men, 35 years and above. One by one they took turns kissing their mother and here and there she came over and placed her hands on their shoulders as they told me stories about washing clothes in the river and gathering limes from the forest.

I ate with my hands, just as I like it and I did my best not to feel nostalgic for El Salvador, even though I couldn't help it. It is something I carry with me everywhere.

I asked questions and they responded. They talked over each other and spilled rice and beans. They licked fingers and laughed with their mouths full. I did, too.
We couldn't help it.

They asked me questions and I told too many details. Four grown men, a big sister, great grandma and grandpa, a grandchild for a few minutes, a neighbor or two, and me, eating tortillas and reminiscing about a life that we relive through stories and comida.

"That is how you keep it alive. My children didn't know their ancestor but I tell them stories over dinner over and over. And now I hear them telling the stories, as if they knew my grandparents. That is how you keep your family alive." One of the brothers told me and I smiled whole-heartedly.

The door squeaked open and shut. And little by little the room got quieter. Until all you could hear was the sound of Grandpa's tele and Grandma washing the dishes. And I got up and I hugged her, and her back felt like my Grandma's back and I didn't want to cry so I didn't tell her how much this morning meant to me. And I walked over and I kissed him on the cheek and he giggled and I walked out the screen door and passed the empty brown wooden rocking chair. And I headed home.

For the rest of my life, everywhere I go, I will find the tortilla-makers. The rocking chair rockers.
I will seek out the Sunday family breakfast eaters. The big children story tellers.
The time forgetters.
The door-openers.
The givers: wise with love, humble with humanity.