Dear Tio Hector

My Abuelo Lucas would make the most intense faces whenever he cooked. He would make angry faces that meant he was satisfied and happy faces told he was unhappy with a particular element or flavor. The smell of onions frying and peppers baking would fill the home so deeply you could smell whatever was cooked in my hair, even the day after. He would raise his wooden spatula into the air, fanning around the aromas, absorbing them right out of the air. I would ask why not just sniff them out of the pot, but he said never to do that. He explained how the smells from the pot are much too intense and may manipulate your nose. "Always gather your aromas from the air," he would say in his broken English.

There were times when it was the day after, and I would catch him in the kitchen sniffing aromas out of the curtains while nodding or frowning. Later I'd go after him when he wasn't looking and sniff away, trying to sense the feeling he was trying to convey. In the kitchen with his red checkered apron is where he was most confident. His hands are rough like a man who's worked with his hands all his life. He's a short man but he never felt small to me. His warm expressions and dark eyes drew anyone in. He never spoke without eye contact. His skin was a beautiful caramel shade just like mines. He’s the kind of man you felt his sense of urgency to take care of you. Food is the main way he was able to express himself when words fail. I could feel it from the glint in his eyes as he smelled each tomato before rinsing them. Cupping them in his palms, he'd then carefully place back the tomatoes that didn't make the cut. I tried to smell the subtle differences in them, but I just couldn't get what he did. Abuelo took pride in showing me how to cook. He never forced it on me, but I knew it made him happy whenever I joined in or simply watched. Especially when I took notes in my black journal. Sometimes I'd catch him smirking whenever he saw me intrigued. Smirking always meant something positive. Abuelo always said it wasn't about making a tasty meal but instead conveying a feeling or memory. He was trying to recreate the aromas from childhood through his mother's recipes. Whenever I wrote in my black book, I was mostly jotting down the emotions and memories attached to the foods. With every meal came a story.

My Abuelo and Abuela have been raising me since birth so I saw them as my parents. Abuelo always got through to me when he taught me recipes. My Abuela always cooked angrily, so I never liked joining her. She slammed pots and pans while yelling angrily that she couldn't find where Abuelo placed a specific spice. Cooking for her was a chore. No question was ever good enough. She always yelled, I "should know this by now," or "what a stupid question." Abuelo didn't mind repeating himself. He also never judged my questions. She tried to force me to cook, explaining it's the only way to a man's heart and said I'd never find a husband without learning. Wherever she forced me to join her, I simply watched and did as she said, but I never wrote anything down. I knew her meals had no intentions and stories. I tried not to retain anything, knowing it was all wrong. Abuelo had the perfect approach to cooking, and I didn't want to confuse the two.

I miss Abuelo's food because now he just lays in bed all day until it's time to eat. I pray I've learned enough and that he is proud of my meals. Every time I cook, he tells me I did a fantastic job, but I hope he means it. Abuelo had a stroke last year, and his hands became positioned in fists. So he can no longer use his hands. Abuela and I have to help him with almost everything. I don't mind helping him; what pains me the most is knowing he's hurting. I know how much cooking meant to him, and it made my stomach turn and knot at the thought this was the end of cooking for him. I try to keep him as much involved as possible by asking him lots of questions, even ones I already know the answers to. I also make him repeat stories tied to the recipes. He loves questions and recounting memories. I get him to join me sometimes. He comes in and watches proudly, telling me 'careful' if he thinks I add too much Sazon or Adobo.

We have those moments, but I know they're not enough for him. I try to get him to join physical therapy, but he refuses. He says it's much too expensive. I also found this arm brace online that could potentially help him regain some independence. People with his condition can now cook and use their hands with this device's help. Unfortunately, Abuelo doesn't have insurance. God only knows what those things cost. I thought about getting a job, but Abuela forbade it. I'm under 18, so I can't make that choice on my own. She said she needs my help now more than ever. Abuelo has told me stories of having a kind, rich brother who lives in Puerto Rico. He's a very successful real estate agent. My fear is that Abuelo might never forgive me if I asked his brother for this. I also couldn't promise Tio Hector that we could ever pay it back.

From what I gathered, my Abuelo was close with his brother, but life gets busy, and they haven't reconnected since before the stroke. I needed to try. I stayed up all night writing in my journal, scratching out statements, and restarting them over and over. It needed to be perfect. After I got what appeared to be something I was happy with, I typed it out and hit send quickly before I had the chance to rethink it.

I hit refresh all day the next day. The day was dark, and thunder roared outside. The rain was falling like a giant water balloon exploded. I went to double-check if I had the correct email when I saw a new message.

Dear Maya,

I am so happy to hear from you. You have grown to be such a kind-hearted young lady, and I am so sorry we haven't had the chance to meet. I have missed out greatly. I am so deeply sorry I haven't stayed connected with Lucas and to hear about his condition. I should never let work and life get in the way for this amount of time. This is my fault. Lucas should not have had to be a year without the help he needs. I know him very well, and I know he would never ask. Thank God he has such a wonderful granddaughter who loves him and looks out for him. It would bring me the most joy to help you. I will send the money needed and if you should ever need more, don't hesitate to ask. If he gets angry with you, tell him I know if it were the other way around, he would do the same for me.

Sincerely,

Hector

I felt so fuzzy inside. My eyes watered; it may have been the happiest I've ever been. My Abuelo would get his life back.

The next morning I woke up to my Abuela screaming in a tone I haven't quite heard yet. She was praising God while screaming and crying. She said she had been praying for a miracle, and it came to be. 20 thousand dollars was in her account, and she couldn't contain her joy. I walked out to the living room, and my Abuela yanked me, embracing me. She held me so tightly I could hear her heart beating and feel the warmth of her chest. It was a strange feeling. I wasn't used to it, that's for sure, but I embraced it.

I glanced over to Abuelo, who was staring at me. I realized he knew this was my doing, and he couldn't help but smirk. I ran to him and hugged him deeply and for the longest time. My tears fell onto his cheeks, sinking into him and evaporating.

I anticipate his meals and the beautiful smells to come.