Floating in the air is the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelios, morcilla... home, laughter, long nights...
Echos of different radios playing Willie Colon, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony, Bad Bunny, Karol G... which fiesta you tryna go to.
Viejitos sit together, reflect on how long its been, the neighborhood is changing..
playing dominoes by the trucks.
funny to hear them yelling over eachother,
a game of who's louder.
Pero never tell them "you're yelling!"  tho , por que "no mama THIS IS HOW I TALK".

You don't just walk down the streets. You dance. To the rhythm. Hips start to sway. Bachata takes over and you're dancing with 3 others. 1..2..3..hip 1..2..3.. hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip
"MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN. If you can dance infront of everyone you can anything in this world. Never stop dancing."
I love them. Feels safe here. It's home.
The machismo never phased me. It lifted me up.

Faded memories of climbing the rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block. taking breaks to eat my cherry piragua. These Memories hold me warm as a knitted blanket. Carrying with me, never forgetting.

The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter strikes cause it was so long ago. I was so young, yet I miss the opportunity I could've had. Wish we had a chance. MY viejo. My abuelo. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only a joke he would know)