Rosario

Rosario

“Póntelo” said my abuela in her sweet yet intimidating tone as she reached for my neck with her soft hands that smelled of cilantro. She had gotten up at 7 in the morning to make fresh shrimp ceviche for my arrival. “Póntelo todos los días” she insisted. The minute it touched my skin I felt automatic guilt and moral obligation, the kind that’s imbedded in you when you’re born into an ultra-religious-grandma sings in the church choir- Hispanic family. I loved my abuela but I wasn’t too into the Rosario thing. Or the santos. Or the Virgen. I could feel the rosario strangling my mind with sin and repentance as she carefully placed it around my neck and the brown wooden beads hugged my chest. I wouldn’t wear this when I’d go back to New York. I loved my abuela but I moved away for a reason, to not disappoint her or mami with my actions or sins aka having sex and not being married yet. At my age, my grandma was already on her third child, had perfected every Ecuadorean dish out there and would wake up with perfect brown curls and red lips every morning. Continue Reading…