The Voice Behind the Phone I walked into the back door of a stone house. Accompanied by my parents and younger sibling. I did not recognize my surroundings, the people, nor recall a reason for my presence. The smell of fresh mud and ashes ran up my nose, an unfamiliar environment. My mother led the way, within each step her footsteps hit the ceramic floor with more frequency. She confidently walked toward the kitchen. My mother’s expression conveyed slight excitement however, I could see her eyes begin to twinkle with tears and turn a rose red color. I pulled on the hem of her cardinal colored shirt.
“Mama donde estamos?” Mom where are we? She looked at me as she begins to blink more frequently not allowing a tear to roll down her cheeks.
“Esta es la casa de tu abuelita, aqui es donde yo crecí con mis padres y hermanos.” This is your grandma’s house, this is the place where I grew up with my parents and siblings.
“Abuelita?” Grandma? A middle aged woman with streaks of white hairs dressed with a black and white checkered Mexican apron welcomed us. I stared for a while however, I could not identify the face. The woman hurried to the four of us as quickly as she could. She did not speak, neither did my mother. With a smile from ear to ear the woman and my mother hugged tightly.
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My family avoids the topic. As a matter of fact, I doubt my parents know I remember that day. I never fully understood what this meant to my mother and grandma. Growing up I slowly realized the meaning of illegal in a foreign country. I learned the significance of leaving all your family, friends and hometown for one person. Although it did not mean much to me when it happened, I grew to embrace this experience as motivation. Looking back at what both my mother and father left behind I grow nausiotic. I should work hard and pay them back what they have done for my sister and I. I want her to met the voice behind the phone as many times as she