The Jar

In my house, we have the jar. It’s become a sort of coming-of-age ceremony for my family. Only Abuela gets to decide if you’re ready for the jar. My cousin, Rico, didn’t get to see the jar’s inside until he was twenty-two. When I was fifteen, Abuela decided I was ready. And now, here I am, staring at it’s colorful red and copper outside as it rests upon the high kitchen cabinet. I sighed, grabbed a stepladder, and took it down.

The jar was cold and smooth to the touch. I ran my fingers over its zig-zagged patterns before thumbing off the clay top. I pulled out the tightly rolled up parchment paper and unrivaled its yellow silk ribbon. On the paper was a handwritten family recipe for gazpacho dating back more than six generations ago. A recipe I’ve memorized six years ago when I first saw it. I sighed, tucked it back into the jar, placed it back up on the cabinet, and left it to collect dust for another six years. I glanced at the clock. It was time to go check on Abuela.

“Hola Abuela.” I greeted as I set a plate of paella on her nightstand.

She didn’t turn to look at me or the food. Abuela kept staring at the ceiling. She stopped interacting with me a while ago, when she forgot who I was, who she was. I still remember the day the doctor diagnosed her with dementia. It’s been a long six years. The doctor doesn’t think she’s going to live much longer. There’s another house visit next week, maybe there’ll finally be some good news. “Make sure you eat it all.” I said as I closed the door behind me.

It’s quiet here. Just me and Abuela. Rico, Amy, Sofia, Luis, and all the others faded after she was diagnosed. I could see it in their eyes: they couldn’t stand seeing her like this.

Dammit.

And they think I could? Corbades! At least I had the pinche guts to stick around and take care of her.

I miss it. The nights we’d gather around the table, laughing, swapping stories. Then, all our attention would serve to Abuela as she carried gazpacho with its rich, savory scent wafting through the air.

No one’s made gazpacho since Abuela was diagnosed.

I took the jar back down. Maybe it was time for that to change.