![]() ![]() She went back to the pan with two glass bottles of spices. “Did they say when they’d be here?” I asked Grandma Lechuza and tried to contain any worry in my voice. They fought a lot when she left to see Grandma, she told me that the old woman was a witch- a bruja - that she was a bad mother, but most of all, that Grandma didn't like dad. Mom didn't like her, and I’d known it for a long time. She got angry when asked about the old woman and why I should stay away from her. Grandma waved to me from the other side of the church wall before my mom yanked me inside for Sunday service. I’d seen her once before when I was much younger. Mom said it was because she was old and went to bed early. She studied glass bottles of herbs and spices in search for something to add to dinner. She drew the veil over, hiding her features from me. Grandma Lechuza noticed me squinting, searching the shadows for her face. I tried to peer through the shadows at her. He’s always so busy,” she shushed me and walked around the room to the cupboard. The sizzling from the pan grew louder from another wet smack as more meat hit the hot metal. I’d given up on expecting dad’s work truck to turn the corner and decided I’d walk instead. The elementary school lights were dim, and I started to get cold. I stretched my memory recalling that I missed the bus. I didn’t remember Grandma Lechuza picking me up from school. I searched for answers, tapping my fingers on the paint-chipped table. It was dark and silent, and felt much later than seven o’clock. My eyes drifted to the open window at the breezy night outside. My mother worked nights as a nurse and my father was an electrician. Her bony fingers were silhouetted against the warm hue that the stove cast on the adobe walls. She made a small gesture with her index finger and thumb. I was taught to always respect my elders, especially my grandparents. “Fine, Grandma, but only a little bit before mom and dad pick me up, though. “ Comida es importante para una niña que está creciendo. “No, they feed us at school, and mom doesn’t like when I don’t eat dinner.” “ ¿Hambrienta? Hungry?” Her accent was heavier than Lita Gloria’s. Its charred scent wafted into my nostrils. Her back seized and a sizzle of meat roared from the pan. ![]() I struggled to speak Spanish like most of my friends. I only understood a small amount of her native language, despite my parents being bilingual. She’d sweetly chastise me by patting my hand and speaking slowly so I caught every word. My other grandmother, Lita Gloria, spoke only Spanish. ” She pushed her words through a tight throat and waved a wrinkled hand to dismiss my concern. She hacked and something wet caught in her mouth. Grandma Lechuza’s back was to me, she coughed violently. Mary's face and hands were scratched off and Jesus' peaceful eyes were scraped and scarred. The images on their colored glass exteriors were all damaged and obscured by cracks. I thought they looked old, their wax low and liquid. The same ones my parents knelt at to pray. The virgin Mary, images of the cross, and Jesus. Their flames struggled to find breath as they wavered dimly. Lit candles lined the walls atop dusty shelves. The home was small, a cramped single room with dirt floors and a wood-beamed ceiling. Her adobe home festered in the Mexican countryside, miles from the border of Texas. Her shoulder blades rolled and twisted beneath the fabric of her shawl as she stirred whatever sizzled in the cast-iron pan. The lace mantilla she wore over the top her head gave her the appearance of a mournful Mother Teresa. Her shoulders, beneath a threadbare shawl, were hunched. When I met Grandma Lechuza, she stood over a wood-burning stove humming an old Vicente Fernández song. ![]() Unfortunately for me, I was raised by my grandmother, and I had no hope but to end up exactly like her a poor, lonely, hungry, bruja. They’re afraid they’ll grow up to be angry like dad, or overly critical like mom. Most people fear that they’ll end up like their parents. ![]()
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