I want to take a moment to remember someone who was truly one of a kind my abuelita, Celestina.
Growing up, I spent so much time at her house. We would watch movies together but whenever there was something that scared me I suddenly became this loud, hyper, borderline obnoxious 5-year-old. I’d be running up and down my Abuelitas house, yelling, screaming, full of energy with nowhere to put it. I was a handful, to say the least in these moments.
But Abuelita never lost her cool. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. She would calmly call me over, and make me sit down. And even if I tried to resist, the second she raised her voice, I listened. Not out of fear, but because there was something about her presence—a quiet strength, a gentle authority that you couldn’t ignore.
And then she’d do the thing that always brought me peace. She’d go into the kitchen and start cooking.
Without even asking, she already knew what I needed: taquitos con queso fresco. Every single time. Just tortillas, queso, and a little bit of sugar. And somehow, it was magic. It wasn’t just food. It was comfort. It was love. It was her way of saying, “I see you, and I’ve got you.”
That’s the thing about Abuelita Cele she was patient in a rare way. The kind of patience that doesn’t need words. The kind that holds you steady when the world feels too loud. She never rushed, never complained—she just showed up, over and over, with calm hands and an open heart.
Abuelita taught me more than she probably realized. She showed me that love doesn’t always have to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes, it’s found in the quiet moments. In a plate of food. In the way someone makes you feel safe without even trying.
I’ll miss her deeply, but I carry her with me. Every time I eat taquitos con queso fresco. Every time I slow down and choose patience. Every time I think of the little kid I was, and the woman who made that kid feel at home.
Thank you, Abuelita. For the food. For the love. For the peace.
I love you always.
