“Hey, Abuelo! Something smells so good! What are you making for dinner?” My grandfather stands at the stove, stirring something in a pot. It smells like heaven, and I know it will taste that way too. I lean in to peck him on his rough brown cheek. It’s something I started to do after he moved in with us. And now it has become as much of a habit as brushing my teeth. Abuelo moved into our cozy little bungalow when he retired from his job as a school custodian a few years ago. My abuela, my grandmother, passed away three years ago. Around the same time as my dad left. Abuelo built his own room in the basement as soon as he moved in. He’s great at stuff like that. We don’t talk about those tough times. Abuelo has worked hard at getting over losing the love of his life. And my mom has worked just as hard to move on after losing our dad. For some reason, my dad wanted to go live down in Florida. Mom didn’t want to, so he went by himself. Things hadn’t been great between them, and it was almost a relief when the constant arguing stopped.
