I can tell you're not really here

excerpt from a nonfiction piece + small poem

Was it not my great-grandmother whose cheeks turned bell pepper red when the fire trucks came and she spoke no English? On my grandparents’ and great-grandmother’s first visit to the northeast, we took a day trip across the river to Vermont. Vovó remained in the house, left to her own devices. She wanted to surprise us with stuffed peppers. An excellent cook, she was known for her mingau de milho, a hearty cornmeal pudding we’d eat for breakfast. She’d always tuck away in one of the bowls a small cinnamon stick from the pot; finding it was like getting a wishbone, filled with good luck.