Hey guys, it's Riri Goei here with a brand new story. This time, it's all about Santana and her beloved abuelita. Her problem with her abuelita really touched me, so I decided to write a story about it.
Chapter One: Cinnamon Cookies
NOW
She stops in front of the door.
It is painted green, with a golden brass handle and a gaping keyhole underneath. An old-fashioned bell, rusty by age, hangs by the left side of the door. A silver wind chime tinkles in the hot, summer wind.
She can hear movement from inside the house. She knows the person she's looking for is home. All she has to do is ring the bell, and that familiar face will pop up in front of her. But her stomach constricts every time she reaches out for the bell; all the courage she had mustered for months simply disappears within seconds.
But, she reminds herself, she didn't come all this way to chicken out. She is Santana Lopez, for goodness sake. She isn't afraid of anything. She should stop being a pathetic wimp and ring the bell. How hard can it possibly be?
Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the bell again. Her fingers hover in front of the string and, for the hundredth time that morning, she finds herself unable to pull it.
She clutches her hands close to her chest, cursing under her breath. Where is your bravery, Santana? If anyone at school ever sees you like this, you'll be Lima's laughingstock for the next year.
She surprises herself then by grabbing the string and giving it a long, hard pull.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Once she realizes what her hand had done on impulse, she covers her mouth and takes a step back. The sound of the brass bell rings adamantly inside her head; it sets her teeth on edge and her stomach churning.
"Who is it?" That beautiful, beautiful voice she has missed for so long. "Just a minute!"
She straightens her clothes, tucks her flowing dark hair back, and folds her hands neatly in front of her lap. Her heart trembles in its socket.
The door opens.
She doesn't know who looks more surprised – her or her abuelita. Over the few months she hasn't seen her, Abuelita Alma hasn't changed one bit. Her hair is still the same reddish brown; her deep, compassionate eyes are in the color of warm tea; her kind face is filled with wrinkles and creases. Santana is reminded once again of how like her father Abuelita Alma is. She wonders, not for the first time, if she will look like her abuelita once she is older.
"Abuela," Santana offers her grandmother her warmest smile. "It's been a while."
Abuelita Alma's smile turns quickly into a tight-lipped scowl. Her eyes radiate anger and disappointment – things Santana doesn't see very often in her.
"What are you doing here?" her voice is cold and sour, unlike her usual loving voice.
Santana tries to swallow her bitterness as she explains. "I am on summer break from school. I am home for two weeks, at least. Then I'll have to go back to New York. I… thought I could pay you a visit, abuelita." She tries another smile. "It's been a while."
A wonderful smell wafts through Santana's nose then; a familiar smell, a smell that resembles her abuelita very well…
Cinnamon cookies, Santana thinks. Abuelita is making cinnamon cookies. My favorite.
"New York?" Abuelita Alma snaps Santana back into reality. "Found a new lover there already?"
Santana's heart aches. Her abuelita can always be hurtful once she chooses to be so. "Abuelita, I'm not here to fight," she says pleadingly. "I'm here to talk to you. I miss you, abuelita. Can't we please talk? Just like the good old days?"
"I'm busy," her abuelita answers, nostrils flaring. "I think you should go."
She slams the door in Santana's face.
There are tears in Santana's eyes as she walks down the steps of the house and back into her car.
THEN
"Abuelita! Abuelita!"
The door was painted blue. The bell was shiny, its voice shrill and loud as Santana pulled at the string enthusiastically.
The door opened. Abuelita Alma was wearing her favorite summer dress, a pink-and-white checkered dress that reached to her knees. A green baking glove was on her right hand.
"Santana!" She laughed as her seven-year-old granddaughter enveloped her in a hug. "Now where did you pop from, ángel?"
"Mama's busy so I have no one to play with," the little girl whined.
"Well, you arrived just in time – I'm making your favorite cinnamon cookies!"
Santana's eyes were wide with excitement. "Cinnamon cookies – me gusta! Gracias, abuelita!" She ran into the house, eager to get her hands on the freshly baked cookies. Abuelita Alma's cinnamon cookies were the best.
Abuelita Alma laughed as she closed the blue-painted door behind her.
I apologize for any mistakes in the Spanish words. My only tool is Google translate.
