Two hours and counting

Called Abuela Rosa at two in the afternoon because I just wanted to hear her voice. That was the whole plan. Check in, catch up, ten minutes maybe fifteen.

Sarah was already on the couch when I dialed. She’d come over with no real agenda — she does that sometimes in the summer, just shows up with coffee from The Grind and we figure it out from there. I put Abuela on speaker without thinking about it, mostly so I could keep folding the throw blanket I’d just washed, and then suddenly Sarah was laughing at something Abuela said about my cousin’s new haircut and we were just. In it. Two hours.

Two hours and counting

There’s something about hearing Abuela Rosa’s voice that does something specific to me. It’s not sadness exactly — it’s more like being gently reminded that there’s a whole other version of home that exists somewhere, intact, waiting. She asked about the archive project. She always asks about the archive project now, which still surprises me a little. A year ago I was the one nudging her to let me document things; now she calls me with updates, names she remembered, recipes she wants to make sure I have written down right. That shift happened quietly and I’m still catching up to it.

After we hung up Sarah and I just sat there for a minute. She said her mom does the same thing — the calls that are supposed to be quick and aren’t, the stories that come out sideways, the feeling after where you’re sort of full and sort of sad at the same time. I didn’t know she felt it too.

Post-call debrief. This is legally a requirement of long-distance family phone calls.

We didn’t make any plans for the rest of the afternoon. We just stayed on the couch until the light changed.