Apple-Zana

Warm afternoon light ripples across her olive green counters. The tangerines are cut into slices like the Venetian blinds swaying in the kitchen.

She will be coming soon. I pick the pith out from under my fingernails and cut more tangerines for our afternoon snack.

“Mija,” I hear her say behind me as she shuffles down the hallway, “You have our fruit ready.”

The light in her voice outshines the warmth of the afternoon and the soft hum of a TV show. I pull an ornate dark wood chair from the nearby dining table and slide it over the smooth white tile floor into the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s ready. Come have the first piece.”

I hold out a tangerine slice to a waving hand.

“Oh no mija, you have the first pick.”

I take a bite as she kisses my cheek.

This is a moment that grows from distance and time. Time away, time spent driving down I-35 to see my grandmother, my Lita. The moment has come to fruition in my Lita’s rarely quiet kitchen. No cousins, uncles, or aunts in sight. Just us together.

I smile as she offers me more food. Lita’s kitchen is always in a potential state for a feast. Here, there is everything from tamales and pasta to frozen food ready to be cooked. She now offers me her Meals on Wheels lunch.

“No Lita, that’s your food you should eat it.”

“It is my food, so I give it to you.”

I sit down and scoot closer to Lita. In this space, I can feel like a kid again, even if just while this movement lasts. In this space, I ask her a question that I can’t ask anyone else.

“Lita…” I trail off, escaping to the comfort of the current moment. Not wanting to rattle the calm of the afternoon kitchen.

“Yes, mi reina?”

“Do you think of me as Hispanic? As a Mexican person? Like maybe I shouldn’t talk about being Hispanic since I don’t speak Spanish and I didn’t grow up here? Am I Hispanic enough?”

“It is not about enough or not enough, mija. You are as God made you and that is enough.”

I wonder if that was enough for her as well. I look at the tangerines sitting on the plate in front of us.

“Lita, would you like more?”

“Yes, please but bring the one from the bowl.”

The fruit bowl, almost empty from a week of quick hands grabbing a snack while running off to play, holds one apple among a few hard lemons. I take the apple and offer to slice it. She takes the apple, looks at it, and then holds it up for me to see.

“Many things, mija, can be good while being different. Not everything has to be the same. This one apple, ¿la manzana, verdad?, among the rest is still good.

The apple wobbles into place, placed next to the golden tangerines. Peace settles in the kitchen, from Lita, its source, as I smile and say, “Like, it’s an apple-zana?”

She pauses, her brown eyes staring off as she seemingly racks her memory of words. She then smiles at the new phrase.

“Sí, mija. An apple…an apple-zana.”

I take her hand and hold it as we sit back with the tangerine slices and turn up the TV.