As I enter the house, my grandmother’s love covers me with the warm blanket of a soul-enriching smell.

My mouth waters.

My belly begs for it.

I comply to these cries with ease. I’m used to this, but I still wait for this moment each whole, long day.

My grandmother’s smile welcomes me into the kitchen–the smile I cherish, the smile I remember, the smile I always took for granted.

Her excitement is undeniable–She’s been waiting for this moment this whole, long day, too.

We’d been longing to get to our favorite part of the day, our afternoon ritual, believing we would keep doing it for years to come.

We’d eat together. The flavors melt in my mouth with the delicious sensation and comfort her food would always bring.

Mmmm…

I never got tired of it.

I never imagined that one day I would have to wait much longer to repeat what had gracefully, gratefully become our daily meet-and-greet tradition.

I ask her for the recipe of today’s guisado–pozole. My favorite.

Her eyes brighten, and brighten my day as she comes closer.

“We’ll have to make it together one of these days,” she whispers.

And we did.

She taught me how to chop, season dishes, and calculate the right amount of each spice the right way–her way. But I could never do it as fast or as delicately as she did.

I’d hear her slicing skills in a paced, rhythmical melody–toc, toc, toc, toc, toc, shwoop–the knife against the cutting board and her sacred ingredients being pushed into her beloved pans and pots.

She would place her index finger on the knife, cut exactly in the middle of the chili and take out the seeds perfectly, making me believe I was witnessing some kind of magic.

In each step the same dedication. In each instruction the same patience.

So precise. So elegant.

How could she do something so simple so beautifully?

I was her unofficial apprentice.

“Perfect,” she’d compliment me when I tried. But I’d think that if my effort was perfect, it wasn’t quite as perfect as her work of art.

I kept my admiration a secret, but I never imagined how much I’d miss our cooking sessions, or how much I’d regret not having them more frequently when I could.

I smiled too, never realizing that my heartfelt-but-short-lasting smiles would become some of her most precious moments, just as hers became some of mine.

I never imagined how much I’d regret not keeping that smile a while longer, not telling her how much she means to me.

I never imagined that my life would change so drastically in such a short time, but I learned that it’s true what she once said, “life never goes as we plan.”

Now I live more than a thousand miles away from her, missing her much more than I ever thought I could miss a person.

Missing my grandmother unexpectedly taught me how truly enchanting missing someone can be.

Missing my grandmother made me treasure our connection at least ten times more than I did when she was physically close.

Now all of it is priceless to me.

All of it.

The minutes on the phone, and the shared hugs, and the recipes we both know by heart, and each time we burst with laughter, each memory that roots in my heart and drops its sweet fruit on my mind, each time our silent gaze allows us to secretly express more than we did when I assumed she’d always be there, and each time I remember she can feel all of these things as clearly in her life as I do in mine.

Because when I miss my grandmother, I’m thankful for what she gave me.

Because, humanly, she may be far away, but I know our connection can cross all borders.

So when nostalgia threatens to turn into pain I only have to remember my grandma’s exact location to feel her presence:

Inside of me. On my chest, a little bit to the left.

Because I know that will never change, and that the ways in which she shaped me will be preserved in me forever.