Where She Still Lives.

Before our trip to Seattle to visit my brothers, my son asked me out of the blue:
“What was Grandma’s dying wish?”

The truth is, my mom’s death came so suddenly that there was no time for last words or final requests. No deep conversations, no plans, no journals, no instructions.

She wasn’t the type to keep heirlooms or repeat the same stories for us to hold onto. No traditions, no rituals—just small habits that I now find myself repeating without even thinking.

I didn’t ask her the hard questions. I used to, when I was little, but she made it clear she wasn’t comfortable with them, so I stopped. Instead, I learned to observe. I became quiet, attentive—always hoping to catch whatever she might let slip.

And honestly? In the end, when it was apparent that her illnesses were taking the better of her, I was afraid. Afraid that asking about her past, her wishes, even asking for her recipes, might somehow invite the end closer. What if she understood why I was asking—and quietly begin to let go? It doesn’t make logical sense, I know. But when someone you love is slipping away and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, superstition can feel like the only thing left to hold onto.

It didn’t matter, because she died anyway. And now, I regret not asking even the littlest questions. I think she would have loved to share it all. We just didn’t know how to have those conversations.

Her recipes are the thing that lingers on my mind the most. My mother loved to cook. She didn’t make a big deal out of it—she just showed up with food. Softly. Generously.
Her arroz con pollo—nobody made it like she did. It was her Peruvian specialty. I’ve tried versions at restaurants and family gatherings, but nothing comes close.

Thankfully, my cousin managed to scribble down a version of her rice—thank goodness for that. If you knew my mom, you’d know there was never a real recipe. She just cooked—no measurements, no instructions—just instinct and heart. But somehow, just that once, she recited something to my cousin. Maybe she sensed we’d need it someday. Maybe she felt more at ease sharing it with her and not me. Maybe she was a little superstitious, too. Whatever the reason, I’m so grateful she did.

For my brother’s birthday this year, I was determined to make her arroz con pollo—a “mom meal.” I spent the whole day anxious, missing her deeply.

We made it. And somehow… it came close.

Was it was because we made it together, thinking of her? Maybe this was her dying wish after all—to carry her love forward in the things she used to do, especially the food she made.
The moment it started to smell like hers, we all lit up. It didn’t look quite the same, but it felt like her.
It was the first time we did something that felt like a tradition she left behind. The first thing that felt like her legacy.

I miss my mom so much. Especially here. I wish she were with us in person. In a way, she is.
But these are the moments when grief sneaks in and squeezes your heart—when your throat tightens and you can barely breathe through the memory.

Still, that night, in the warmth of the kitchen, in the food on our plates and in our conversations, she was here and that meant everything.