Grandma stands at the stove,
hands pressing warm dough
into perfectly imperfect circles.
No rolling pin—just hands,
fingertips dusted with flour,
thick with love.
The tortillas puff on the cast iron,
the warm, floury scent of dough
filling the small kitchen.
I hover, belly grumbling,
mouth watering, waiting.
Cheese goes between two tortillas,
gooey, salty,
filling me.
I bite, and it stretches,
pulling me into warmth,
into her love.
Now I press dough with my hands,
load it with cheese,
watch my daughter’s eyes widen
at the first bite.
The same stretch, the same salt,
the small kitchen in my memory,
soft as a tortilla,
steady as love.
About the Creator
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December 8, 1980
When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.
By Tina D. LopezExclusive • 2 months ago
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