Memories of Cinnamon

This kitchen is perfectly, sterilely decorated and organized. Blobs of abstract paintings fill the walls; the dishes have their own cupboards and drawers; and the counters shine despite the crumbs from food and the droplets from drinks. The low murmur of talking, crying, and laughing gets drowned by the bubbling of my coffee being brewed. Pouring probably too many French vanilla creamers into my dark roast, my dad always tells me–I mean, he used to tell me that my grandma did the same thing. She’s resting in a glossy, wooden casket just a few rooms away from me. It stings as I realize that pouring too much creamer into her morning cafecito is one of the things that she can’t do anymore.

Swatting that thought away, I pour and stir an extra creamer into my coffee in honor of my grandma before I seal my drink with a lid. I walk out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and look into the reception room for my seat. Steam blows into my nose as my pursed lips try to cool the drink down through the small opening. The sweetness of the creamer and the acidity from the brew begin to blanket my face into a memory. I visited my grandma every morning. I have a key to her house so I’d walk in all the time and whenever I wanted. The first thing that would always welcome me into her home was the scent of her homemade coffee. That same smell is somehow emitting itself from this generic drink in my hands. A scent that’s warm and comforting with a dash of cinnamon. My mom, with puffy red eyes, sits next to me and, thankfully, releases me from a memory that threatens to bring tears to my eyes. She blows her nose into a tissue and sighs. We both look up at the TV displaying my grandma’s picture and her new dates.

Yvette Cisneros

March 21, 1944 - June 27, 2025

In her picture, she’s sitting on her favorite lawn chair in front of her small flower garden. Abuelita Yvie was always up and moving. Gardening, walking, cleaning – you couldn’t get her to sit still. This is what made her last days scary. First, she would stay in bed for five extra minutes, then five minutes turned to 10 minutes, then 10 minutes turned to 15. Her breaks between moving around became more frequent before she stopped moving altogether.

I should have tried doing more for her. Gardening with her or walking with her. Maybe I should’ve tried telling her to eat healthier or forced her to go to the doctor. The first time I went over and saw her still in bed should have been a warning sign. Her house didn’t smell like coffee, and there were chores that were undone. I should have told my dad, but did I do that? No. I cancelled helping her grocery shop a few times, and I kick myself when I think about the shallow reasons of why I didn’t stick to my word. My failures grow louder and louder, longer and longer. A metallic tang fills my mouth as my jaw clenches at my shortcomings. I should have-

“Mija?”

My mom’s hoarse voice and cold hands take me out of my trance.

“Sorry, mom. What did you say?” I ask.

She sniffles into the same tissue. “Have you seen your grandma yet?”

I shake my head and look down at my lap. My little cousins run past our table during their game of tag. Their laughter sticks out like a sore thumb in this sea of tears. I hope they stay like this forever.

“You should soon. Before she leaves.” The last two words strain my mom’s voice.

My teeth begin to crack. I can’t talk to her or hear her or feel her. Now I won’t be able to see her? This is such bullshit! I failed her so many different times and I can’t tell her how sorry I am. Or how I wish I had done better for her. I look at her picture and I just feel so angry, but now at her. She shouldn't have been so stubborn about going to the doctor or taking medicine. Why didn’t she just say something was wrong? My little cousins’ erupting laughter snaps me out of it. I’ve never felt a modicum of anger toward my grandma, not once in my whole life. Except for now, and that scares me.

My chair screeches as I get up. I grab my coffee and leave the table. I’ll apologize to my mom, whose call I didn’t respond to, later. I walk by the funeral directors who are guiding my family and others who adored my grandma on where to go for the service. I hadn’t realized that I’m standing a few feet away from the chapel entrance. The chapel where my grandma is resting. My feet are glued to the floor, my legs are boiled noodles. Tears wet my cheeks, and I immediately spin around. I look into the private room that they gave us for today and breathe a sigh of relief at it being empty.

There’s one TV mounted on the wall with two couches and one loveseat in the room. A slideshow of pictures and videos of my grandma is playing with her favorite trio as the background music. Christmases, Halloween parties, Dia de los Muertos, graduations, and every day memories of my grandma’s smile fills the screen. I watch each picture and video with great focus, as if I can teleport myself back to those moments with her. Especially when it’s a memory captured of her and I. A lump in my throat suffocates me. I start clearing my throat and do breathing exercises before I try to force it out. No matter how much I cough, it doesn’t soothe, so I finally sip my coffee. At the first taste, I begin to sob.

I’m catapulted into every memory I have of her – memories that taste like cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla. I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee when I was little, but she’d let me have a secret cup anyway. When she would convince me to take breaks from errands or homework to watch novelas with her, her homemade cafe de olla tasted just like this. She taught me how to make it her way and though I always got close, it never tasted as sweet as hers. The ghost of cinnamon and vanilla settles on my tongue and they mix with the salt from my tears as I cry out for my Abuelita Yvie.

More memories come crashing down on me as I drink and watch her laugh on screen. I don’t respond to the knock on the door or look over until I’m handed a tissue.

“Mija, they’re going to take her now.” My dad’s voice is tired. He brushes my hair behind my shoulder and sniffles.

I take a deep breath and then take my dad’s hand. I chug the last of the coffee before throwing it in the trash. As we walk out of the stateroom and into the chapel, every memory of my grandma begins flowing through my veins. They’re jolting me awake as we walk down the aisle to get closer to her. I stop at the threshold, but my dad goes up to my grandma. After a few minutes, he steps off to the side with my mom and his sisters, all crying or puffy-eyed from crying. Everyone waits for me, and I can feel everyone shaking from their sobs. I slowly make my way to her. I look at her from her hands to her face, and the memories pause.

Her eyes are closed, and her hands are on top of one another. Her purple rosary is wrapped around her fingers. She has a lot of them but this one is her favorite; she got it when she was a child in Mexico. I hesitantly reach for her hand. At first contact, I blanch. She’s cold, heavy, and there’s a smell about her that’s foreign. She used to smell like warm and comforting cinnamon but now that scent has been replaced with chemicals. Chemicals that leave a bitter taste on your tongue and burn your nose hairs. I want to cry and scream that it doesn’t feel like her or smell like her and that I want her to wake up. Just when I’m about to, I look closer at her face. When I do, all I can hear is my grandma telling me that she loves me. The last words I heard from her before I was notified of her death by my dad.

“I love you forever and ever and ever.” Her broken English and my broken Spanish was transcended by the love and care we had for each other.

A sob escapes me as I hear the echo of her voice in my head. The memories resume as I bring her hand to my cheek and kiss it. I wipe my fallen tears off her hand and kiss the dangling rosary, too, before placing her hand back on top of the other. I brush her hair, and I tell her that I love her too, just like I did that night. It’s hard to walk away for what will be the last time, but I did it. I stand with my parents and aunts where they all reassure me as best as they can.

The funeral directors give us their condolences as they begin the process to close my grandma’s casket. I held it together for as long as I could, because I didn’t– no–couldn’t believe she was gone. But grief is strange. One sip of generic, complementary funeral home coffee was enough to set off echoes of my grandma. As I look at her being loaded into the coach, the memories I have of her alive swirl together with the memories now forming of her in her final bed.

Both memories are equally precious for different reasons. One is mixed with life and joy, and the other is filled with healing and community. The coach may be driving away with her, but I see her and feel her everywhere – with my family, my memories, and the scent of coffee.