It is soaring to a familiar resting place. I see a 30-foot-long table (La Mesa Grande) with benches smoothed over time from the return visits of kindred folk feasting, giggling, yelping, and resting on its two-by-six boards bonded by drops of Abuelito’s (Grandfather’s) blood from splintered fingers, the sweat of his brow, and the force emanating from every stroke of his hands. La Mesa Grande and Abuelito were a "perfect bond of union."

La Mesa Grande’s legs were firmly girded, just like Abuelito’s. It wore its smoothed wrinkles proudly, and the wood’s grain was meshed with the clay-rich tints of Abuelito’s tierra (land) from Guanajuato, Mexico. La Mesa Grande had been uprooted one too many times, and it grasped our tierra with no intention of releasing its embrace. Abuelito and La Mesa Grande shared themselves with many, giving freely of their time, and each was always ready to absorb the sentiments of many. La Mesa Grande endeared its surface, soaking up gusto (flavor and pleasure), joy, drippings from all the chilies seared, peeled, sliced, and diced on it, and bebidas (drinks) of all sorts, especially those high-spirited, colorful, and ubiquitous refreshments that precipitated thunderous, sweet and bitter inner symphonies—the dando "gritería" (yelping) by my tíos (uncles) and Papa. La Mesa Grande, a connoisseur of music, collected the secret symphonies of many. I wonder if Abuelito understood La Mesa Grande was of an epicurean construct—its wantonness barefaced.

Memoria, por favor déjame entrar. Gracias! I see now: it’s a cold winter morning, with dew slowly creeping down the windows of our old four-room country farmhouse. Sometimes I wonder if those dewdrops were really tears from la casa, our home that had been uprooted from its birthplace and transported to unfamiliar surroundings. Nevertheless, la casa’s inner echoes sustained and soothed not only its soul but also mine. I hear the familiar clittering and clattering of kitchen utensils. . . Umm, umm. . .a cinnamon scent permeates the home. In la casa this meant Mom’s atole was a-brewing. Que riqueza! My universe was blessed with three major gastronomical centers: La Mesa Grande, Abuelita’s (Grandmother’s) house, and Mom’s kitchen.

Memoria, what a gracious host you are for allowing me to enter your mansion. When you open your windows, the views caress me and cuddle my heart, and the delicate brush strokes of your breezes expose timeless images—the pentimentos of my life soothing my soul. Memoria, I see a stack of yellowed newspapers on La Mesa Grande, gracias! Whenever Abuelita would come over and place discarded newspapers on La Mesa Grande, Mom and my tias helped all the primos y primas create sombreros de gallo (rooster hats). Sombreros de gallo warmed Abuelito’s heart; subsequently, he would fire up his holla de cobre (copper pot) and advise Papa y mis tíos to butcher one of my pigs. I never participated in their demise, but I did enjoy the chicharrones that Abuelito fried up in his holla de cobre. While I was storing the exact movements Abuelito was entrusting to me, his favorite charred staff was scripting Abuelito’s movimientos on my favorite ash-filled pages of our tierra. Harmoniously, all the tierra and its inhabitants were in motion, swaying back and forth and to and fro: the men were butchering, the womenfolk were singing, dancing, and preparing pork sausage and corn tortillas, and some of us were using el molcajete (mortar) to crush the freshly harvested, pungent garlic and chilies, onions, cominos, and tomatoes in preparation for Abuelita’s salsa. Our mini-farm was overflowing with cultural richness, where the dancing of cha-chas, mambos, cumbias, salsas, sambas, rumbas, and corridas spiced up our unique identity—our molcajete. All of our rhythm and La Mesa Grande’s epicurean delights allowed for our unique Latino compositions—recipes radiating aromas unique, unique as Abuelita’s salsa, from our molcajete.

"I hope you are hungry," said Abuelita.

"¿Puedo probarlo?" I asked.

"Sí, mijito," she responded, "here’s a taste.

"The waters are smoking," my Abuelita said, and she shuddered. "Inhaling and exhaling—its pathways difficult to navigate. Life’s waters are free, but these waters demand the ultimate price—an invisible demise. La Madre de Cultura (The Mother of Culture) scrapes through waterways fueled by the chubascos (torrential rains) precipitated from the depressions of her heart—thunder and waterfalls rippling her echoes throughout the labyrinthine waterways of the earth. She searches for all the tempestuous and invisible souls—she is la Llorona! Once la Llorona captures you," Abuelita said, "your tributaries flow freely, leading you to your inheritance of old—the Promised Land of pan dulce con café y leche (sweet pastry with coffee and milk)." Abuelita’s head with its crown of wisdom turned to a faraway place, her teardrop creeping toward the south, and she said that la Llorona is the spirit of all culturally rich people of the past and present—our ancestors and current generations rooted to their tierra. "Mijito, their vines are attempting to attach to a kindred repose," Abuelita said.

As she continued, I noticed Abuelita’s tears—her streams of illumination—flowing to the south, and my mirage was riding the waves southward.

"Mijito, la Llorona searches for the depraved and the homeless, providing sanctuaries of cultural quintessence—a myriad of molcajetes," Abuelita lamented.

Abuelito watched over his flock carefully. I knew this because my four brothers, two sisters and I would, as foxes do, sneak into the chicken coop and release a few baby chicks, chasing, counting, and gathering them up to see who rounded up the greatest number.

Abuelito’s universe was our stage. We never suffered from stage fright, because once we noticed Abuelito cocking his belt, shaking his head to and fro, and gritando (yelling) his favorite cock-a-doodle-do grito: "Ay mijitos, que traviesos (Oh, my children how mischievous you are)," it was our cue to begin performing our version of the "jarabe tapatío"  (Mexican hat dance) around Abuelito. We always anticipated Abuelito’s improvisational renditions of standing ovations, bravos, and of course his not-so-well-disguised sonrisas (smiles).

Once the final curtain was drawn, it seemed as though Abuelito habia comido gallo (was in a fighting mood), and Abuelito’s sonrisas were disguised too well to further recognize them. La Mesa Grande soaked up Abuelito’s most bitter symphony.