For Ms. Sanchez

With me, you were most committed
to educating my palate. To seek the canvas
of my tongue and leave me astonished by tastes.
How your kitchen became a tiny school of life—
I, an ever-eager student, perched on a high stool
watching you at the center of it all, focused
and determined, lost in the art of cooking.

Sometimes I couldn’t tell what got you
more excited: from seeing the delight in my eyes
when I tasted chorizo for the first time or from
proof that you had succeeded in amazing me, again.
Your pride, a thing that announced itself before
anything else, a sharp contrast against my anxious self.

Over potatoes and kielbasa, you teach me about confidence,
“When you walk into a room, keep your head up. Own your presence.”
We talk about your fear of death and your love for tango dance
while we have beef pot roast. I stay quiet. I listen. I am a
faithful keeper of these stories. When it’s my turn, I tell you
about my family and country as I scoop arroz rojo on my plate.
At Christmas, we clink our glasses of egg nog and
I repeat after you: Mi casa es tu casa.

When I hear that you are gone, my body goes numb,
but my tongue is fiercely alive. I taste the sweetness
of sugar, cinnamon, and melted butter on French toast.
I remember your voice:
“Don’t hold back, have more syrup, more syrup!”
And if I hesitate, how you would reach for the bottle and
pour some for yourself, and then for me, as if to show me,
to dare me to believe that it’s okay to want more, to be more.