Round Trip, by Maria Dicent

  

Round Trip

Written by Maria Dicent

It was summer and I had to say goodbye to the great city where I was born. My mother decided to take me to my grandparents' house for the second time. The first time I visited them I was 9 months old. Now I return to my mother's country with a mixture of emotions, memories, and spring laughter.

My mother understood that I would be happier with her family since she lived alone in New York. With two jobs, it was difficult for her to find someone to help me with my studies and care for me until she returned from work at 9:00 pm, so she decided to take me to the Dominican Republic.

My grandparents' house was big and so was the family. On the same sidewalk, there were four houses one after another where part of the family lived. Inside my grandparents' house, there were three apartments as well. The entrance to the house made me happy because I felt that I lived in a garden surrounded by flowers and fruit trees. In the center of the courtyard stood a rustic cement fountain that my grandfather had built, where birds walked to quench their thirst and sing beautiful melodies.

The garden was so magical and full of colors that you could talk to the trees and ask them for permission to take their lemons, guavas, oranges, passion fruit, almonds, and other fruits I cannot remember. The flowers were as colorful as the rainbow and their scent perfumed my skin. I used to pluck “trinitarias” or the so-called “Isabel Segunda” flowers to place them on each side of my braids. I could stand enraptured at that entrance observing the whole firmament that opened before my eyes like an enchanted place.

I remember the walls painted the color of the sun. The house was simple, the wooden furniture made by my uncles in the courtyard (or at the back of the house) where there was a cabinetmaking workshop that made and sold furniture to the public. The kitchen was also on the patio, rustic and open, with a zinc roof supported by four wooden sticks. On one side was a large counter where food was prepared, a sink in the middle, and in front of the counter, a cement bench where the aunts sat to help prepare what was to be cooked.

My aunt Ana, whom we affectionately called “Ana la Prieta” (because there are two Anas in the family, one white from my grandfather’s side and the other black from my grandma’s side) was the main cook, using large pots or cauldrons. My grandmother had a stove inside the house, a gift from my mother from New York, but she preferred to cook on “anafres” with charcoal. I would assist, my two braids swaying, blowing the ashes from the “anafres” as they danced around my face like silver stars.

In the yard, many visiting cats were always welcome, for my grandmother Isabel adored them. One brown cat, which I named "Starved", often snatched meat from my plate and fled, leaving me in tears chasing after him. White and grey rabbits roamed the yard, and a goat named "Meme" once chased me after I teased her, pinning me with her horns until my uncle Felipe rescued me.

My grandfather Miguel, with orange hair and a freckled face, was the kindest man. He often said I was his favorite granddaughter, and with him, I learned the capitals of the world. He'd show me photos from magazines and have me guess the city, rewarding correct answers with five cents. He told me of my brave mother's reasons for moving to the U.S., assuring me she'd soon return on a plane when I missed her.

Now, as I write this memory, I'm overtaken by a torrent of emotions. I wish I could thank my grandfather for his company, ensuring I never felt alone. I believe that the house, its garden, "Starved" the cat, and even "Meme" the goat live on within me, just as my grandfather's spirit flows through my veins, reminding me of the nostalgic girl who yearns for her past, hoping her memories never fade with the passing clouds.