text: The large hickory door looms in my vision, massive and imposing. Small windows bleed light through eye-like holes and the gargoyle knocker bares its teeth. From inside, the faint tone of the doorbell echoes throughout the cavernous rooms. With a deep-throated creak, the door swings open revealing a small, rotund figure. “Why, hello, Kye!” The mild-mannered old woman adjusts her gingham apron. Small fingers interlace across her stomach. “Oh! Um... hello Mrs. Wood. I was just here to ask if you have some butter? I ran out.” Her wide smile never waivers as she shoos me into the house. The imposing exterior stands in stark contrast to the warm and comfortably furnished room that I stand in. Tapping my fingers on the overstuffed sofa I try to recall the ingredients. Water... or was it milk? Never mind. Eggs. Sugar. Cinnamon. I swear there was more... oh yeah! Butter... what else? A soft groan flutters from my lips as the ever-expanding list disappears from my memory again. The starched lapels of my suit cut into my throat, pinching the skin there. I fit my fingers into the small crevice where collar of my suit bites into the hollow of my throat. Tugging as hard as I can muster, I loosen the tie that my wife so carefully knotted around my neck. Her warm fingers had whispered by the tan skin of my neck, pulling at my dark curls. With four cats in tow, pouncing on the edges of her apron as she moves, Mrs. Wood turns the corner. In her carefully manicured, wrinkled hands lays a pound of butter. At least. “I believe I forgot how much you said you needed... so I grabbed what I hope should be sufficient.” She must’ve seen my eyes widen to the size of large eggs, because she gave a little laugh, “don’t worry about paying me back!” She chirped, misinterpreting by bemused expression. “Thanks, Mrs. Wood.” I utter quietly, gripping the mass of butter and slipping it into the small bag I towed along. It lands with a heavy thump and the sound of ingredients rolling and turning before they are smashed. Each step out of the door pinches my toes, rubbing them raw against the stiff new insides of my dress shoes. My heart tightens against the confines of my chest, the recent memory of Mrs. Wood bouncing and rebounding off the recipe, his recipe. When I step into the house, a cacophony of smells assaults my nose. The sweet scent of cinnamon mingles with chile powder. My mother stands in the center of it all; her flour coated hands raised into the air like the world’s greatest conductor, commanding her instruments to sustain a final note. Although the focus painted on her face never waivers, her eyes glisten with tears at the familiarity of the chaos. Next to her grieving figure stands my wife, her thin fingers resting on my mother’s shoulder, whispering to her gently. “Mamá,” her watery-coffee gaze turns to me with a start. “Kye. Mi amor, conseguiste la mantequilla?” Kye. My love, did you get the butter? By way of reply, I heave the bag onto the counter, full of half remembered ingredients. My abuelo’s recipe blooms again in my mind and I rush around the room grabbing mixing bowls and spoons. Eggs, butter, my mind races as I grab the ingredients, tossing them into the bowl, flour, salt, baking powder, sugar. The ingredients fly together, drawing relatives’ eyes to the cloud of spices and flour I create. Movement after movement, ingredient after ingredient, until the bowl is full of something slightly resembling cake mix. The joyful memory of my grandfather fills my bones, instead of my movements being a poor mimicry of his graceful dance around the kitchen, it becomes my own. The contents are poured into a pan, rippling and mixing as it fills the circle. I shove the pan into the oven, my abuelo’s excitement flushed face rushing through my mind and blooming on my cheeks. Stepping through the sweet-scented cloud, my wife brushes seasonings and flour from my suit, and wraps her arms around my neck. My mother looks at my again, tears streaming from her eyes as the memory of her mother peers back at her. The gentle weight of my grandfather’s hands presses down onto my shoulders, holding me steady as my mother enfolds me in her arms. Relatives pool around me, some only distantly related, others close. All chattering in heavily accented English or caramelized Spanish. Rose lipped aunts pull me to their chests, eyes watering when they release me. In one fantastic raise of her palms, my mother calls everyone back to their assignments. The musical artistry of creation fills the room like a cloud; blooming from the palms of everyone working. Sweetened condensed milk. Heavy cream. Evaporated milk. My rubber spatula scrapes the sides of the mixing bowl, turning the sweet flavors over with a careful touch. The oven beeps gently, signaling that the cake is done. My grandfather rests his palms on my shoulder again. Mi nieto, he whispers, carefully now. My trembling hands skim precariously over the smooth skin of the dessert. His hands release my shoulders, slipping down to grip my now grown hands in his, steadying the shake. The memory of my tiny fingers interlaced with his calloused palms flickers through me. His warm breath tickled my ears, fluttered in my overgrown curls that hung heavy over my eyes. I had held my breath, trying to contain the giggles that always threatened to escape. My abuelo’s goatee scratched my neck as he smiled at my efforts. A fork carefully clasped in my small fists, I eased it into the cake. The prongs puncturing the delicate crust. The milk mixture was poured in carefully, absorbed into the sponge-like cake. As each moment plays in my mind, I mimic the movements. A childlike sense of wonder blooms in the pit of my stomach as my grandfather smiles next to me, his invisible presence comforting me. In the other room, my relatives add pictures to the ofrenda. My grandfather already rests there, his image lit up by the flickering light of the candles. Surrounded by his favorite foods and the things he loved most in life. I sprinkle the final garnish on the tres leches cake and lay it next to his picture.