My mother keeps five or six hummingbird feeders scattered throughout the yard, and she refills them constantly—sometimes several times a day. Since she’s been away visiting her family for almost two weeks, the responsibility of keeping those little birds happy has fallen to me. Yesterday we bought a giant ten-pound bag of sugar. It might sound excessive, and maybe it is, but the small bags barely last a day once the feeders are in full swing. Around here, I’ve become the hummingbird bartender.
That’s not the only role I’ve taken on while she’s gone. With the ranch to look after, I’ve been filling in where I can. Each morning I wake up early and start cleaning or cooking, doing the small things that keep the place running smoothly. One of the big tasks has been tackling the freezers. Over the past few days, I’ve discovered Tupperware stacked to the brim, some of it filled with leftovers from last Thanksgiving. The smell of old food was overwhelming, and the fresh air outside didn’t help much when I decided to haul it all out and scrub the containers with soap, water, and the hose.
In one of the smaller freezers, I came across last year’s ambrosia salad—something I can still remember eating not so long ago, eventhough it was clear…long ago. Now it was covered in mold, a reminder of how quickly time goes by. I threw away packages of meat with freezer burn, unlabeled items with no hope of recognition, and odds and ends that had lingered far too long.
When I wasn’t cleaning, I found myself stepping into the role of chef—though more of a budget-minded one. Nothing fancy, just meals to get us by. The other night I made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Simple, cozy, and inexpensive. The funny part is, I had never made grilled cheese before, even though I’ve cooked steak dinners, casseroles, soups, stir-fries—you name it. Making grilled cheese turned into a little bonding moment with my father. I burned myself slightly, but it was worth it. There’s something about dipping a warm, crispy sandwich into soup that makes the whole night feel comforting.
With my mother gone, I’ve also had the chance to spend more one-on-one time with my father. Normally she accompanies him everywhere—to the store, on errands, even just short drives for work. Now it’s me by his side, sometimes even taking the wheel when he’s tired. We’ve gone to a new toy store in town and to a local discount shop. I always look for Disney’s Stitch merchandise to add to my collection, while my dad gravitates toward the candy section. It feels silly, maybe, but we both get a kick out of indulging the inner child. I like picking out dolls or little things I would have adored as a kid. They don’t bring the exact same joy they once might have, but they still spark something inside me.
Another piece of life these past weeks has been my grandmother. She’s always been feisty, but her memory continues to fade. Last time we saw her, she forgot how many children my father has, and even forgot my brother—her so-called pride and joy. Somehow, she still remembers me, maybe because I visit often, or maybe because I’m nearly a copy of my father. She has always commented on my wavy hair and eyes, the same features she admired in him. She used to say that men in the family never have daughters, so when I was born, she said I must belong to someone else! Now, though, she treats me no differently from my brother(somewhat).
When I visit, I help with small chores—watering the backyard plants, raking the front yard, or gathering guavas that drop easily from the trees. I told my dad it might be better to let the fallen leaves and fruit stay put, to keep the soil moist, but my grandmother prefers everything neat and tidy.
Unfortunately, her memory troubles have brought tension, especially with my father. She has begun accusing him of stealing money from her, at least once a month. Then she apologizes—sometimes multiple times—because she forgets she’s already said it. Sometimes she even gives me some money after I help around the yard, only to ask me a minute later if she gave me money at all. My father took over managing her finances and moved her money to an account that earns interest, but when the new statement arrived, which show proof that the money had indeed been moved, she became convinced he had taken all of it. They argued over the phone, voices raised, frustration on both sides.
Today he went to visit her, hoping to smooth things over. Maybe it worked—at least until the cycle repeats and next month she believes he has stolen from her again. For now, all I can do is hope their relationship holds steady, and continue doing what I can to help keep things together here at home.
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