We smile as we run to the arms of my Abuelo
His tan polo smells of the stuffy heat
My hand feels the slippery sweat of my Abuelo’s old cracked hands
We reach the silvery short car
And pile our backpacks and luggage in the small trunk
I sit in the center of the warm,stuffy, cloth covered seat
We make our way through the crowded traffic
The windows rolled up for safety
The noise of the people yelling
Selling their food on the side of the mountain road

I feel the glossy juice box slide on my fingers
It’s splash of color
Like the smiling faces in the cardboard houses falling off the side of the -mountain
Spanish phrases scrawled on the back of it’s box
The font swirls distinctly showing the foreign diversity
I sip in a burst of sweetness
Feels like the breath of fresh air as the AC blasts in one direction
The little carton creaks in my hand
A reminder of it’s imperfection

Another sip in
I can smell the mango flavor and the moist heat of the air
I bite the sticky straw with my yellow teeth
Like my shoulders squished between the elbows of my mother and brother
The smoothness hits my tongue
I can taste the pineapple, the banana, and the papaya flavors disperse across -my tastes buds
I swallow
The warm juice fills my throat
The creaking window rolls down and pushes my blonde pigtails out of my face
I gulp and feel it drop down to my stomach
I smile as the flavor slowly disappears and I notice the high pitched talk of -my mother and her father
I am in
VENEZUELA