Grandma stands at the stove,
hands pressing warm dough
into perfectly imperfect circles.
No rolling pin—just hands,
fingertips dusted with flour,
thick with love.
The tortillas puff on the cast iron,
the warm, floury scent of dough
filling the small kitchen.
I hover, belly grumbling,
mouth watering, waiting.
Cheese goes between two tortillas,
gooey, salty,
filling me.
I bite, and it stretches,
pulling me into warmth,
into her love.
Now I press dough with my hands,
load it with cheese,
watch my daughter’s eyes widen
at the first bite.
The same stretch, the same salt,
the small kitchen in my memory,
soft as a tortilla,
steady as love.
About the Creator
Tina D. Lopez
I’m just a human trying to make it in this world. I write about heartbreak, loneliness, longing, anger, family—all the things I can’t seem to leave alone. Everything I write is about me, even when it’s about someone else.
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