Val's Narrative

My house sounded like it always did when my family was over. Loud stomps and screams were coming from upstairs, an indication that my cousins were playing whatever game they had come up with today. Loud drunk laughter and tambourine beats were coming from the living room. My mom’s heels were clanking around the unofficial dance floor as she swayed her hips with my dad to the bachata song playing. It was hectic, and overstimulating, but I always loved it. Yet something was off.

I smelled it before I saw it. Coming down the stairs, the familiar whiff of well seasoned chicken and soft yellow rice was coming from the kitchen.

Am I imagining this? Surely, it couldn’t be. Could he be here?

Before logic could override my heart and tell it no, that’s not how death works, I beelined for the kitchen, looking for my grandfather, with the stupidest smile on my face.

My newly formed smile dropped faster than it arrived and an overwhelming sense of grief overtook me. It was like I was losing him all over again.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there. My grandma was standing over the stove, hot, thick, gray air floating around her. She was preparing arroz con pollo for everyone to eat, my favorite dish.

This was all wrong. So wrong. No one around me even noticed I was there. No one blinked an eye at the fact that my grandma was making his dish, and he wasn’t. Because he wasn’t here. No one seemed to care. No one seemed to remember that this was his specialty and no one else’s.

My eyes began to sting. I could no longer hear the sound of the tambourines, the drunk laughter, the clanking of beer glasses, the loud stomps, the screams coming from upstairs. Everything just went silent in my head except a pattern of loud, deep thuds in my ear. The thuds began to race, and so did I.

I raced up the stairs and into my room. I threw myself at my bed and sobbed.

Arroz con pollo was the most delicious dish I’ve ever had, and I hated eating it. The yellow rice was always soft, almost buttery. It absorbed all the seasoning from the juicy, well seasoned chicken and the deliciously cooked vegetables. It was the most perfect hot dish to warm the soul, but I hated it. I hated my favorite dish. Because it was his specialty. His dish. And he wasn’t here.

He left, so suddenly and so quietly that I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. In his passing, my love for arroz con pollo left too, because I didn’t want to eat it unless he prepared it. And now I have to deal with petty attempts to replicate his dish, as if him not being here didn’t matter.

The first time I had tasted the dish was when I was about three. It was the standard dish we would eat when there was a special family gathering. I lived in Venezuela then. When I moved to Miami, I would still eat the savory goodness. It always reminded me of living in Venezuela. Now it only reminded me of him.

And I had lost both things.

I’m ridiculous, I thought to myself. Here I was, crying over my dead grandpa who passed a whole year ago. Everyone was over it, and I should be too. A stupid, simple, delicious dish shouldn’t trigger my lingering sadness. Except it did.

I could still smell it. The aroma was so strong, which was one of the reasons I loved it so much. It was one of those few dishes that tasted like it smelled. It didn’t lead you on with its distinct scent, and then disappointed you once you first tried it. A lot of dishes did that, which ultimately gave me some real trust issues when trying new foods. Arroz con pollo would never do that, though. It draws you in with a promise. You can smell the burnt seasoning that lies on the edges of the chicken, and the lingering whiff of red peppers that attaches itself to the soft smell of the yellow rice. It promises so much, and it never fails to deliver. My trust was never compromised- my grandpa made sure of that.

Papo is what I would call him. He married my grandma before I was born, but it was her second husband. I was lucky- three whole grandpas who all considered me their princess. Tragically, that luck was quick to run out.

The Universe is funny like that- giving me three grandpas and taking them all away before I could even turn 14. It was cruel. Papo was one I was always really close to. I loved the way he cooked, and how he expressed his love for you by offering to make you something to eat. The minute I woke up, he was always ready with arepas con perico and a few hours before it was time for bed, he was ready with my favorite cream soup, crema de calabaza. But then, only sometimes, if I asked nicely and flashed my big doe eyes at him- his weakness, he’d prepare arroz con pollo for me. It was a big dish and took a while, so it wasn’t something we could always have. When he did prepare it, we’d have enough to last us a week. Those were my favorite weeks.

Arroz con pollo was a prize. It was a special moment. It was something to look forward to. It was a dish I treasured. And it was always something he was tied to. Only he could make it just right. No one could compare.

And I’d never taste it again.

There was a knock on my door. Hoping I didn’t look like I’d just been balling my eyes out, I opened my door. It was my mom.

“Hija, baja. Hay arroz con pollo. A ti te encanta.”
I tried to smile. “Si mamá, ya bajo.”
She smiled back, but there was a hint of sadness behind it. “No es nada como la de Papo, obviamente. Nadie lo vence.”
“Me lo imagine.”
For a brief moment, she paused. She stared at some point behind me, momentarily lost in thought. She looked sad.
The moment was gone quickly. She shaked her head and composed herself. “Bueno, baja rápido. Te voy a preparar un plato.”
I nodded and closed the door as she walked away. I turned to my left and looked at my reflection. I had a small, sad smile on my face. My grief was shared. It was nice to know I wasn’t alone.

Maybe we were all grieving him today.

I splashed some water in my face and depuffed my red eyes. I let my nose guide me into the kitchen, where the scene stayed pretty much the same since I had stormed away. This time, though, I realized the ghost of him. Everywhere.

It was in the arroz con pollo, of course, but it was also in the music, in the makeshift dance floor, in the drunken laughs. He was everywhere. Everyone knew it. We weren’t alone. Our family, our food, our music- it all brought out the ghost of him.