Tradition
You run down the street to the cormado. You look around to see the elders playing dominoes. Smack "Dimelo Papa" Smack "Que te dije" They taunt as they place their pieces on the board.
The little kids are riding their bikes down the barrio. They toss a baseball and play on the calle. To the foreigners, it seems dirty and unsanitary. To the kids it seems like home.
You stop by your grandmas house. It hasn't changed since you last saw it. It's colorful and bright, like a fiesta. Your grandma is cooking mangu and arroz con leche. She's playing music in the background. Marc Anthony. Juan Luis Guerra. Michel el Buenon.
In come your primos. You haven't seen each other in years, but it's almost as though you never left. They smile and tease you, "la gringa". You laugh and shake your head. Callate, but you smile. You know you couldn't mean it if you tried, and so do they.
The whole familia arrives. Los tios y tias, abuelos, cuñadas y cuñados. El entero grupo. You laugh. You dance. You eat. And most importantly, you're together. You don't ever want to leave.
It's manana. You don't want to leave. You say adios and hold back tears in your eyes. You promise that you'll be back soon.
Your here. Your in bed. Your 1,399 miles away, but you couldn't feel closer if you tried. Las fiestas, los dominoes, la comida, las sonrisas. La familia. Todo. Esta en tu sangre. You will never let it go.
-Hilary Batista
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