The sides are slick with moisture and the damn thing slips out of my hands, spilling ice and soda everywhere. “Shit,” I say, vaulting myself out of my chair and standing over the growing puddle, hands up in surrender and helplessness even though its only a spill. Just a spill of soda and my brain freezes for a minute, the television playing the Bernstein tune in the background. Before I can do anything, my grandmother pops her head out of the kitchen to see what I'm cursing about. “¿Que paso?” she asks me. She has a wet dishrag in her hand already, her tiny frame hobbling towards me. “Just the damn soda,” I say. “I can do it, abuela,” but she's already on her hands and knees cleaning it. I'm about to bend down to help when my phone chimes. It's work. “Go, go get it,” she scolds, getting up to wring out the rag in the kitchen. I can't say no to her, and I can't ignore the text.
