Nestled in a space in my mind, that I return to when I am tired and cannot sleep, or I am overwhelmed and need an anchor, or I am feeling nostalgic and remember a time when I felt loved is a little house in Southern California, near Compton. The stuccoed bungalow did not look like anything special from the outside. Grey and weathered, it was located down an alley, behind several other houses that looked just like it. It was nearly a perfect square and now that I know the size of things, I’d be surprised if the 2 bedroom/1 bath house was more than 1000 square feet.
You wouldn’t know it, walking down the busy, often volatile streets in that neighborhood, that a haven lie behind the worn door at the end of the alley.
If you were to walk through that door, maybe because your boyfriend of 6 years left you and you were sad and weren’t sure who you were anymore or what you should do next, you would be greeted with the scent of savory things sizzling on the stove top which was nearly directly in front of you when you opened the door. The matriarch of the family did not speak much English and you did not speak much Spanish, but she would light up when you walked through that door, give you a hug and offer you a cup of tea.
I’ve had many cups of tea in my life but none as good as the basic Lipton’s black tea she made every hour on the hour in that tiny kitchen of hers. It was hot and sweet with a squeeze of lemon from the tree that grew just outside her kitchen door. And that delicious tea was always, always, served in a yellow mug. The size might be different each time because all of her dishes were yellow but none of them were from a set. They were from years of scouring yard sales or Goodwill shelves to find even just one happy yellow plate.
There was a small wooden kitchen table, too painted yellow, where I would sip my tea and one or both of the two sisters who lived there. These sisters were close to my age. They were round and sweet and never asked me what heartache brought me to their home. They laughed easily and spoke in high voices, and I basked in the ranchera music that played for the small radio in the corner, which the mother would snap on as soon as she rose at 6:30am.
The mother would put something delicious in front of me to eat, salty beans, or meaty enchiladas or some of her Puerto Rican rice which was always on the back burner of the stove. The rice was dark and rich, nothing like the nearly pink Mexican rice I grew up on, and it was filled with bits of peas and carrots and cubes of SPAM. I cannot think about this rice too much or I will begin to cry because I know I will never eat rice that delicious ever again.
The father would come home from working a manual job where he fixed things. He never walked in and looked downcast when he saw me sitting at the table but welcomed me with a warm smile, like nothing pleased him more than to find this depressed white girl sitting at his kitchen table when he had worked hard and hot all day long. His daughters stood to kiss and greet him, and I would follow suit as no one had ever taught me how to greet people as they returned to their home or came to mine until this family.
After eating, we’d move into the front room to watch television while the parents gabbed in the kitchen. The front room was COVERED with happy plants, their leaves spreading over part of the television, across shelves, or hanging from baskets from the ceilings. Where there were not plants, there were elephants (trunks up!), in framed prints on the wall, figurines on side tables or even a large gold statue, like a happy Buddha on the floor. And covering each couch and chair where blankets made of colorful crocheted granny squares.
I’d stay late into the evening watching old movies and episodes of the X-Files, laughing and talking over the episodes until someone would ask me if I was going to spend the night, and the thought of going back to my empty house made me think I’d actually die if I did, so I’d say sure, and someone would fetch me a pillow. I’d pull one of those exultant blankets over my body and the father would lock the doors and the daughters would turn off all the lights and the mother would kiss my forehead before she snapped off her radio in the kitchen and headed to bed.
How can I ever thank them? For hot tea in yellow cups and rice with bits of fried SPAM. For the patience it takes to care for dozens of plants. For granny squares and ranchera music. For the sanctuary at the end of a long dusty alley.
Beautifully written! 💛
Oh this brought me to tears...what a touching tribute to this beautiful family who you obviously loved and who obviously loved you. ❤️