Sunday Masa

Journal

Mom still measures masa with her hands.

The kitchen fills with corn and steam and the radio she never turns down.

The radio kept going.

I used to roll too thin.

She would tap my wrist and say, "Patience, mija. They have to hold."

I slowed down.

Today I got it right.

She didn't say much. She just stacked my tamales with hers.

That was enough.

When we sat down, she took my hand under the table.

The house smelled like every Sunday I ever wanted to keep.

I held on.

We packed extras for Tia Carmen.

Mom wrote her name on the foil in marker, the way she always has.

Carmen would know.

Driving home I could still smell the corn in my hair.

I rolled the window down and kept it.

I kept the smell.