One’s hair is white and short; one’s hair is white and long. Sometimes, it’s in a bun.
One wears a jacket, pants and boots; one wears a dress and an apron.
One is a priest; one is a cook.
One has fluffy, cute dogs; one has turtles who eat, swim, and escape.
One makes dog biscuits with garlic, molasses and bacon. I steal the dough! One makes yummy arroz y frijoles.
From the front door of my U.S. grandmother’s house, I can see houses, nice people, the ocean, and cold. Her neighbor gave me a little unicorn. I play with her dogs and skip down the street and go see Nerida, the mermaid statue. From the front door of my Costa Rican grandmother’s house, I can see kids on bicycles, flowers in her garden; my cousin’s hamster is buried in the backyard. I play in the garden. This is where my dad grew up. When my father was young, he planted some of the trees that go along the road from here to our house. Now they are big.
Grandma speaks English. Mima speaks Spanish. When they talk, they can’t understand each other. I have to be the official translator. It’s nice, because I love to be able to tell them the jokes they would miss.
In my family, I get to be the glue.
Text by Emma Jane Obando Stanley, as told to her mother. Inspired by the outstanding grandmothering of Anne Grant Stanley, of Eastport, Maine, and Cecilia Obando Ramírez, of Curridabat, Costa Rica. Our weekly Media Naranja column tells short love stories with a Costa Rican twist. During our January edition, we’re focusing on love for grandparents. Interested in telling us your story—or in joining the group of educators and parents working with El Colectivo 506 to share more Young Writers’ pieces in our digital magazine? Write us at [email protected] or join our Educación 506 WhatsApp chat!