They Never Really Left

By Dalia Ayala / Spring 2026

The table is small, just enough for three plates and a glass bottle of soda sweating in the heat. I sit between them, my legs barely reaching the edge of the plastic chair. My grandma tears a tortilla with her fingers and places a piece onto my plate before I can ask. Steam rises from the food, carrying the smell of spices and something warm and familiar. My grandpa is just enjoying his food, his hat resting on the table, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. He doesn’t say much, just looks at me for a moment and nods, like he’s checking that I’m here enjoying the food as much as he does.

A radio buzzes somewhere behind the counter. People talk over each other, chairs scrape, plates clink, but at our table everything feels slower. My grandma leans toward me, brushing a strand of hair from my face, her fingers quick and gentle. She tells me to eat before it gets cold. I nod and take a bite, the flavors filling my mouth, grounding me in the moment.

When we step outside, the sun sits high above us, bright and heavy. My grandma holds my hand as we walk, her grip firm but soft. My grandpa walks on my other side, close enough that our arms brush every few steps. The street is busy, but I don’t pay attention to anything except the rhythm of our footsteps moving together.

The park opens up in front of us, wide and green. I let go of my grandma’s hand and run ahead, my shoes kicking up dust from the path. The air smells like grass and trees, and something sweet comes to my nose. I turn around quickly, just to check. They’re still there. My grandma waves at me, laughing, and my grandpa keeps walking, steady as always. I run farther this time, my legs stretching, my breath coming faster. The path curves, and for a second, I can’t see them. My chest tightens, and I stop. I turn back, scanning the path until I spot them again. My grandma’s figure stays close beside him. I exhale and start running again, slower now, waiting for them to catch up.

We walk together after that. My grandma points out things along the way, flowers, birds, people passing by, and I follow her gaze, trying to see what she sees. My grandpa stays quiet, but every so often I feel his hand rest briefly on my shoulder, guiding me around a rock or pulling me back from the edge of the path.

Later, we sit on a bench under a tree. The shade cools my skin, and I lean against my grandma, her arm wrapping around me without hesitation. My grandpa stands nearby for a moment, then disappears toward a small stand. I watch him go, his steps unhurried.

When he comes back, he holds three cups of granizadas. The ice glistens in the sunlight, bright colors swirling together. He hands one to me, and the cold goes through the cup into my hands. I take a spoonful, the sweetness sharp and refreshing, and laugh when it makes my head ache. We stay there for a while, not saying much. I swing my legs back and forth, the bench creaking under us. The sounds of the park drift around us, children shouting, leaves rustling, distant music, but they feel far away. Everything I need is right there on that bench.

As the sun begins to lower, the light softens, turning everything gold. My grandma squeezes my shoulder and tells me it’s time to go. I don’t argue. I just take one last look at the park, at the path where I ran, at the bench where we sat.

On the way home, I walk between them again. This time, I hold both of their hands. Their fingers close around mine, steady and warm. I look up at them, then ahead at the road, and keep walking, matching my steps to theirs.

When the time came for me to leave Guatemala and come to the United States for a better life, my heart felt heavy. I knew it was important, but I also knew I was leaving behind the people who raised me. The people who made me who I am. That night I left, I felt that my world had turned upside down. I made a promise to both of them that night, I said, “Siempre los voy a llevar conmigo, no importa la distancia, yo nunca los voy a dejar de amar y nunca olvidare sus enseñanzas,” which translates to “I will always carry both of you with me, no matter the distance, I will never stop loving you and will never forget what you taught me.” They may not be on this planet anymore, but they never really left me. They’re still there, every morning, every memory, and every part of who I am.