Floating in the air, the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelitos, morcilla —
home, laughter, long nights lingering in the heat.
Echoes of different radios spill into each other,
Willie Colón, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony,
Bad Bunny, Karol G…
which fiesta you tryna go to tonight?
Viejitos sit knee to knee, counting the years,
whispering about how long it’s been,
how the neighborhood keeps changing…
dominoes slapping tables by the trucks.
Funny to hear them yelling over each other,
a game of who’s louder, who’s right.
Pero never tell them “you’re yelling,” tho,
porque — “NO MAMÁ, THIS IS HOW I TALK.”
the drums start calling.
Bomba y plena rise through the streets,
the cry of the cuatros weaving through the drums
I watch the bomberas spin, skirts blooming like flowers,
and I remember the girl I was —
dreaming of becoming one of them.
You don’t walk these streets.
You move with them.
Hips begin to sway.
Bachata takes over and suddenly you’re dancing with three others —
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
“MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN,” he’d say.
“If you can dance in front of everyone,
you can do anything in this world.
Never stop dancing.”
I love them.
It feels safe here.
This is home.
The machismo never phased me.
It never shrank me.
It lifted me up.
Faded memories of climbing rusted bleachers,
always daring to catch up with the boys of the block,
pausing only for a cherry piragua,
syrup staining my fingers red.
These memories wrap around me like a knitted blanket,
warm, familiar, unbreakable —
carried with me, never forgotten.
The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter sneaks in, soft and sudden,
because it was so long ago.
I was so young.
Still, I miss the life we almost had,
the chance we never got.
Mi viejito.
Mi abuelito.
The prettiest princess in the land.
The real Cinderella.
(Only a joke he would know.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 8:35 PM UTC
Floating in the air, the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelitos, morcilla —
home, laughter, long nights lingering in the heat.
Echoes of different radios spill into each other,
Willie Colón, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony,
Bad Bunny, Karol G…
which fiesta you tryna go to tonight?
Viejitos sit knee to knee, counting the years,
whispering about how long it’s been,
how the neighborhood keeps changing…
dominoes slapping tables by the trucks.
Funny to hear them yelling over each other,
a game of who’s louder, who’s right.
Pero never tell them “you’re yelling,” tho,
porque — “NO MAMÁ, THIS IS HOW I TALK.”
the drums start calling.
Bomba y plena rise through the streets,
the cry of the cuatros weaving through the drums
I watch the bomberas spin, skirts blooming like flowers,
and I remember the girl I was —
dreaming of becoming one of them.
You don’t walk these streets.
You move with them.
Hips begin to sway.
Bachata takes over and suddenly you’re dancing with three others —
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
1…2…3… hip
“MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN,” he’d say.
“If you can dance in front of everyone,
you can do anything in this world.
Never stop dancing.”
I love them.
It feels safe here.
This is home.
The machismo never phased me.
It never shrank me.
It lifted me up.
Faded memories of climbing rusted bleachers,
always daring to catch up with the boys of the block,
pausing only for a cherry piragua,
syrup staining my fingers red.
These memories wrap around me like a knitted blanket,
warm, familiar, unbreakable —
carried with me, never forgotten.
The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter sneaks in, soft and sudden,
because it was so long ago.
I was so young.
Still, I miss the life we almost had,
the chance we never got.
Mi viejito.
Mi abuelito.
The prettiest princess in the land.
The real Cinderella.
(Only a joke he would know.
