In a small desert like town down in Garcia de la Cadena, Mexico, a town named after my great great great grandfather, Jose Trinidad Garcia. There sits a small humble home that belongs to my grandmother. The house is made up of old red bricks and cement that is around 100 years old. The paint on the walls continues getting duller and duller as the years go by. The roof only covers the bedroom, bathroom and the kitchen; everything else is uncovered and unprotected from the rain throughout the year. When it rains, the patio doesn’t look like a patio anymore; instead, it looks like a lake with all the water flowing into the rooms and kitchen. The only thing stopping the house from flooding is a little drain that is in the center of the patio,
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In the middle of the kitchen, there is a small but elaborate table. The table has a glass top and five black steel chairs. Next to the table is the stove where my grandma spends most of her day cooking some of the best meals I have ever eaten. This room is not only the smallest part of the house, but it is the most meaningful. Every day it’s full in here with friends and family, eating some of my grandma’s famous tamales or playing cards just talking about our day or listening to some of the folk stories that my grandpa loves to talk about. I still remember the time when we stayed up talking and lost track of time. It was a cold night, Christmas Eve to be exact. The kitchen door was closed and inside were at least 14 family members standing and sitting packed like sardines, talking and drinking a nice hot chocolate. I looked around the room and there was nothing but smiles; everyone was happy and so was I. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned as quick as I could. It was my grandma looking at me with tears in her eyes and telling me that she loved me and that she was happy that I came to visit. I couldn’t help but get teary eyed myself, and I told her that I loved her, too. We all stayed there talking the night away, and by the time everyone left, the sun was coming up on the horizon. I walked out of the kitchen, gave my grandparents a good night kiss, and walked through a white and pink curtain which is the entrance to the
In the middle of the kitchen, there is a small but elaborate table. The table has a glass top and five black steel chairs. Next to the table is the stove where my grandma spends most of her day cooking some of the best meals I have ever eaten. This room is not only the smallest part of the house, but it is the most meaningful. Every day it’s full in here with friends and family, eating some of my grandma’s famous tamales or playing cards just talking about our day or listening to some of the folk stories that my grandpa loves to talk about. I still remember the time when we stayed up talking and lost track of time. It was a cold night, Christmas Eve to be exact. The kitchen door was closed and inside were at least 14 family members standing and sitting packed like sardines, talking and drinking a nice hot chocolate. I looked around the room and there was nothing but smiles; everyone was happy and so was I. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned as quick as I could. It was my grandma looking at me with tears in her eyes and telling me that she loved me and that she was happy that I came to visit. I couldn’t help but get teary eyed myself, and I told her that I loved her, too. We all stayed there talking the night away, and by the time everyone left, the sun was coming up on the horizon. I walked out of the kitchen, gave my grandparents a good night kiss, and walked through a white and pink curtain which is the entrance to the