Chapter 6

  My Burrito

  Huntington

  beach California

  The kitchen hums—a steady rhythm of sizzling oil, clattering knives, and laughter curling into the scent of bacon crisping in the pan. Freshly peeled potatoes add their own earthiness to the air, grounding everything in something steady, something real. Sunlight spills through the window, pooling in golden patches across the warm tile floor.

  I flip a huevo ranchero onto a plate, muscle memory guiding me. The skillet sizzles in time with my heartbeat. For a second, everything syncs—the sounds, the warmth, the movement. Then I look up.

  Across from me, a man peels potatoes with quiet precision. His hands move like mine, mirroring an old, unspoken rhythm.

  A blur zips past—a boy, maybe seven, all restless energy and scuffed sneakers. He dashes by so fast the air shifts in his wake. My lips twitch, but my thoughts are already elsewhere.

  Carlos.

  He was never a thug. People saw the tattoos and decided for themselves. But he was a dreamer. A stubborn, reckless, beautiful dreamer in a world that refused to dream with him.

  I trace the rim of the plate, his smirk flashing behind my eyes. That lopsided grin, those inked-up arms, the way he walked like he had nothing to lose. Would things have been different if the world had made room for him? If people had looked past the ink?

  The boy barrels through again, nearly knocking into one of the cooks. She catches him mid-step, ruffling his hair. “Oye, papuchón, aguas, no?” she teases, her voice warm, affectionate.

  “Sorry Tia!” He grins, already bouncing toward his father, who’s peeling carrots for tonight’s caldo.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I watch him go, something warm tugging at my chest. The cook glances at me, eyes knowing. I sigh.

  , I think to myself, .

  A second later, the boy returns, a small guitar clutched in his hands. “Papa,” he says, practically vibrating. “Look what Carlos taught me today!”

  My heart stumbles.

  He strums the opening chords of and the kitchen tilts.

  The melody crashes over me, dragging me under—Carlos at five, his tiny fingers wrapped around his grandfather’s guitar, his grin a mix of pride and mischief. His mother’s laughter. The warmth of our family gathered around. The memory grips tight, squeezing something deep, something tender.

  The pain is sharp. But the warmth lingers.

  The boy keeps playing, fingers fumbling, finding rhythm. His father leans in, pride crinkling the corners of his eyes. I swallow against the ache rising in my throat.

  A tear slips free before I can stop it. A cook rests a hand on my shoulder, steady, silent.

  Carlos, you’re still here.

  The boy strums his final note, and the kitchen exhales with him. His father claps him on the back.

  “Go play for the customers, mijito,” he says. “Show them what you’ve got.”

  The cook grins. “Diez pesos. Beat ten bucks, and you’ll top Carlos’s record.”

  The boy’s eyes flash with determination. “I’ll get twenty!” He dashes toward the front, weaving through rows of conchas and empanadas, leaving laughter in his wake.

  I lean against the counter, my knees groaning in protest. “That co?o,” I mutter, chuckling past the lump in my throat. “Carlos worked magic with that guitar. Ten dollars a head, easy.”

  I don’t need to say his name. It’s already there, wrapped around every chord, every coin clinking into a jar.

  From the front, the boy’s voice rings out, bold, fearless.

  “I’ll get one hundred!”

  The cooks laugh, shaking their heads. One mutters, “Con ese entusiasmo, he just might.”

  I smile, warmth pressing against the ache.

  “You’ll do it, mijito,” I whisper. Part wish. Part promise.

  The guitar sings, and for a moment, the kitchen stops to listen. But it’s not just the boy we hear—it’s Carlos. His joy, his defiance, his stubborn refusal to be forgotten. The past and present blur, loss and love folding into something softer.

  Coins drop into the jar. Laughter spills over the counters. The cooks exchange glances, their smiles touched with something wistful. Something knowing.

  I turn back to the stove, wiping my hands on my apron.