“Say sorry to Mita,” my great-grandmother Mita says to mesmilingand using poorly pronounced English wordsbecause she never bothered to learn the languageafter wagging tongues and jealous hearts relegated her to the Brooklyn projects 33 years ago
“Say sorry, Mita,” she says, but this time in Spanishand even though her back is to meI know she is serious because I can hear the smile on her faceand it makes me so nervous that I don’t notice I’ve wrapped the dish towel around my wrist until my hand becomes cold and purple
“Say sorry Mita, ju leetle sinverguenza, pendeja for estupidez!Her sharp words slice through the pineapples on the tropical wallpaperof her tiny dark kitchenscattering drops of sweet juice on my cheekand on one eyelash that dangles in front of my pupiltoo afraid to fall off
“Say sorry, Mita” she says penultimatelyHer voice as calm as Ismael Rivera’s singing “El Incomprendido” (the misunderstood)that’s playing faintly on the tiny transistor radio that sits under the window to the world of noisy Wortman Avenue
I don’t respondso she stops moving through her kitchen that smells of plantains and pork and of magic and love,stops fluttering through the tiny space like an island butterfly flutters gracefully through dense bouquets of milkweed,stops meticulously wrapping perfect pasteles without spilling one priceless drop of sauceso that I can no longer glean her culinary secrets — gifts from my ancestors — borne from Mayaguez,and turns to mesmiling her smile that is as terrifying as it is a warm embrace that swaths me with tingles and awe,her smile that burns the skin more than splatters of bacon greasebut makes the piña and Flor de Maga on the wallpaper lean in her direction,her smile that stops the flicker of the kitchen lightbut makes the cracks and peeling paint on the ceiling dance a sweet merengue,her smile that is the fragile bridge on the roof between our two buildings that I am compelled to run across every dayafraid that I might step too hard on one of her jagged teethand into the abyss of her judgementbut eager to reach her becauseit is Mita
“But, Mita, I —“
With fiery eyes locked onto mineStains of golden saffron and olive guts on her apronAnd that familiar, stern yet tender smile on her brown skinned faceMita extends her arm swiftly and unexpectedly as if the Goddess Nike of Apartment 6BAnd flattens a roach on the tropical wallpaperWithout ever looking away
“SaySorryToMita,mi amor.”
And I do.But I’m not.
Photo by alpay tonga on Unsplash