I spent most of my childhood growing up in Pennsylvania, but my earliest memories emerge from the few years I lived in Florida. While my brother and cousin were in school, my mom would bring me with her to my abuela’s house where it always smelled of Cuban cooking and she would bring me rice and beans and Maria cookies. Even after moving back to Pennsylvania, we would visit at least once a year; sometimes driving over eighteen hours just because of the importance of making time to see family. I remember falling asleep during the drive and waking up to palm trees, mango stands, and sporadic rain showers. When visiting for just a week the immortality of familial unity as relatives revolved through my abuela’s house became obvious; aunts, uncles,
