Your abuelita is sick, my mom says one when I come back from school. She is at the hospital. Then, after coming home from a hard day of work, she hugs me and starts crying. One of the rarest things I have seen my mom do.
My abuelita. Getting up in the middle of the night, with her fragile frame, giving me love and medicine so I feel better. Abuelita. Abuelita. The named I always called her with throughout my life. The first name I was taught when I was born.
My abuelita, who is at the hospital with the bright pink curtains, just like the color of the Azalea flower. The smell of medicine and the sound of the heart monitor, afraid I will hear one go BEEEEEP. I look at my abuelita. Frail, about to crack like a vase being glued after being broken. Her left side limp, like a plant drooping because of the lack of water.
My Abuelita, who almost never cries and always supports my family. Who has taken care of me since I was born, is now crying. She is crying because I am there. I am there for her.