by Rebekah Marcano

Published in Hair Trigger A Story Workshop Anthology

 

 

I can still smell my grandmothers apartment. The scents of burning incense and left over arroz con gandules sitting in the pot on the stove. Café con leche brewing from morning ‘till night. Her apartment smelled of her, breathed her overdramatic spirit and resembled her gaudy style.

Always in the corner day or night was the stick of burning myrrh or sandalwood tucked neatly between the crack of a window so the ashes would fall on the sill.

Abulela lit incense after reading her prayer cards which were scattered about the house along with bibles, rosary beads, religious statues, crosses, paintings and six foot gold mirrors. After lighting the incense she would raise her hands to the heavens and asking for this miracle or that miracle. You could light incense for joy, for love, for health, for wealth. The smoke carried your prayers to heaven and cleansed the energy in the room of impure thoughts or people.

Her day began at a quarter ‘till five in the morning. She’d awake, nude of course, except the lovely pink rollers neatly tucked in her short, nappy, red do. Her floppy pink flip flops could be heard throughout the echoing apartment. Flip, flop, flip, flop. And then-boom! On goes the salsa music. And the flip flopping turns to scampering and sliding. Light stomping in rhythmic motions to the beat… “OOOOOOOPPPPPAAAA!” she’d scream, dancing naked all but the pink flip flops and matching rollers.

I know this because once I awoke to use the bathroom…She wasn’t embarrassed. “ Da body, it is a beautiful thing. Beautiful. Never be ashamed of your body. It is a gift. A gift from God. Thank God you have a beautiful body every day….Jesus,Jose Maria, gracias por mi cuerpa bonita…hehehehhehe”

I suppose that’s why at eighty something her body was smooth and toned. No stretch marks or cellulite. Just a beautiful, slightly stocky, firm, porcelain complexion. Head to toe. And her energy, that was from the café con leche of course.

I must have been five the first time I sipped the perfection named café con leche. Because in my grandmothers house, that is when you begin drinking the addictive drink. Five maybe four, right there at the breakfast table with everyone else.

I can hear the music of her favorite band playing, “ Al Gran Combo” and she’d sing along with the lyrics. Only louder and faster and her hips would sway back and forth as she ran from the kitchen to the dining room with plates full of food. She’d never let anyone get up and help her, presentation was her forte. Hosting her passion.

Between trips to the kitchen and back, she’d lift me up from my seat, wrap my scrawny legs around her waist, my head would fall between her chest, and she would squeeze so tight I wouldn’t fall and I’d fly along with her to the kitchen, laughing all the way.

Then she would sit me on the counter, right next to the brewing coffee beans, so strong and flavorful. She would pull out the coffee filter and hand me a handful of cinnamon sticks. “The secret to mi café…” she would whisper.

The beans would mix with the cinnamon sticks and the whole house would fill with the seductive scent of morning pleasure. The milk would boil on the stove, and she would pour in her other secrets: honey and a dallop of sweetened condensed milk. Abulea would pour the mixture into her favorite cat mug with a tail as a handle. I would put the mug up to my nose and let the scent tickle my insides before letting my lips appreciate the indulgence. Mmmmmmm. After drinking the café con leche, the sweetness filling my body with sugary joy, I would say Gracias Dios for Mi Abuela, for mi café con leche, and please, please ,please let me grow up to dance and have a beautiful body just like mi Abuela! Amen!