a note from san juan

My abuelita lives on the 14th floor of an inner-city apartment building in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She has lived in the same corner apartment since before I was born, the walls painted yellow, orange, and green, with religious + cultural artwork from around the world hung steadily, and unchanged, having withstood hurricanes and mangoes and children and grandchildren. There is a balcony off of the living room that has held evening poems, prayers, and maybe once upon a time, a table and set of chairs. Now, the floor, a slab on concrete, is empty. Occasionally, we’ll set a rack to dry clothes in a sun spot. Either way, the door to the balcony stays open and the breeze comes in year-round, offering reprieve from the thick, stubborn island heat.

Puerto Rico has been a constant that I have become closer to. Half of my family lives in San Juan, and when I visit, we often go through the ritual of walking through Viejo San Juan, having a family get-together on a Sunday, and then driving south to spend some time at the beach. It’s predictable. It’s a version of home.

Last Spring, I had the opportunity to bring my 2.5mo old son, Luca, to the island for the very first time. He met my abuelita, his bisabuela, dipped his toes in the Caribbean Sea, and napped under shady palms. Every year is the same, yet inexplicably different. Hands are more wrinkled, the grasp a little less harsh, but the roots, my roots, sink deeper and deeper, as if my feet, the sea, my son’s golden hair, and my grandmother’s eyes were, without a doubt, one.

View from Malena + Tito’s finca
Rio Grande, PR