Blinking his eyes open, the car engine finally halted with an exhausted huff. Isaias grumbled out a groggy groan, his sweaty shit stuck to him. Dangerously close in nodding off, Maywa’s favourite music radio, Honcel Hits. Covering memorable songs of the decade, 'Fly Me To The Moon' stutters on the old loved radio, she switches it off with a bright hum.

"Aquí estamos." Maywa sang, stretching to the back of her seat to haul a rather bulging tote bag. Turning to him with a bright smile, "Come on." Giving him a quick pat on his knee before slipping out of the car.

Isaias answered with a tired croak, his legs were tense and solid, a start of a dull cramp begging at his thigh. Huffing, he cracked the car door open, sneakers landing on the stoney sidewalk, Isaias with great pain hauled himself up with his bag in hand.

And there it was. The same row of crowded houses, rocky brown walls, green life brimming at the edges. Within the hazy noises of a busy city lay a warm home within its jungle. Where most of his best childhood memories resided, the ones he carefully tucked into the back of his mind.

A bundle of nerves left Isaias restless, forcefully swallowing down its rise, palms sweaty. Isaias quickly forced his eyes away, he could practically trace the wide outline of the home with his finger. Old and tall, brick brown, still standing tall after all these years. 

The heavy clunk of the truck door opening turned his attention.

With wide eyes, he jumped to Maywa's side. Who was trying, unsuccessfully, to pull out Isaias' suitcase. Isaias immediately took the bag off her helping hands. "Tía, yo lo tengo, don't worry," Isaias assured, flustered as he set the suitcase to the ground, sliding up the handle with a quick pop of his thumb.

The older woman gave him an exasperated expression, arching a thin eyebrow, "Ay este niño," Maywa fondly muttered, “Alright, go, let me get my keys out." She shooed away with an affectionate laugh, closing the trunk.

"You didn't forget anything, did you?"

Isaias rolled his suitcase along the rough road, wheels wobbling, grunting a pull to the sidewalk, his muscles aching. His Arm throbbed against the strain, heels clicked right behind him.

"Nope." 

"Okay, good, 'cause now it's locked forever in the car." Maywa laughed, the car locking itself with a short click, front lights flashing with a beep. Starting at a speedy pace to the house, Isaias was quick to follow.

And they made their way through the pathway to her home, all stone, sides of overgrown grass and dandelions. Controversially, Maywa’s favourite flowers and Isaias’ favourite way of making wishes when he was a child. While other vibrant flowers lined beautifully around her house, potted plants were placed carefully near the steps and large bushes lined the walls. 

The leaves rustled and glittered in the sun. A soothing clear sound harmoniously rang, the wind chime hung above the steps, it was metallic long flutes glinting in the wind. His hands switched to his sides. Isaias remembered the times, assisting her plant things here, making all the wishes he wanted in the grass at sunset, seeds scattering in the air like stars.

The heat had not given up one degree, the sun still glared down like it had a personal mission to scorch out all of human life on the earth with its harsh rays. His aunt grumbled a huff, tying her thick curls up in an effortless heavy bun with a chunky tie, rebellious stray curls bouncing out. She made her way up the stone steps. A resounding surprised gruff caught their attention from above.

A warm smile took over her face, "Afternoon, Mr Reuten." Maywa greeted, stepping back to wave at the old man leaning on his balcony rail, who laid a suspicious beady pale eye directly at Isaias.

The suitcase momentarily shuttered to a stop, eyes wide, Isaias took in the very familiar and old neighbour behind the rail. The senior man was thin for wear, an expensive thick embroidered robe wrapped around his tall long neck like an imperious stork that sat above a ledge. Isaias could attest that perhaps the man did look like one too. White-grey hair tightly slicked back, wrinkles dragging his face down as a wire pair of glasses sat neatly at the tip of his long nose.

"Has Katia come with your groceries yet?" Maywa made polite conversation, her smile never wavering, Isaias had to give her props for that, even as a child he would run at the sight of him. 

Maybe…Isaias still would.

"Eh!" Mr Reuten spat out, snapping out a dismissive wrinkly hand in the air, brows drawn so low to his eyes any would wither under his unnerving glare."That girl is nothing but trouble." 

Isaias didn't think it possible, but his nasty sneer deepened.

Icy blue eyes pinned Isaias right where he stood, a bony hand curled around the rail, “Not trouble like this one, though,” His lip curled, Isaias felt himself shrink, "I see the wild child has returned." 

"Good afternoon, Mr Reuten." Isaias offered a hesitant wave, hell, he even tried a smile.

It only made the senior man's spine drop into a menacing curve as if was ready to jut out his beak and jab at the offensive hand. Well, Mr Reuten most certainly remembered him, and unfortunately not fondly Isaias noted with an ashamed wince. Isaias as a child was...to say it simply, filled with unbridled mischief. Untamed in energy, always running around, never stood still and could not for the life of him stay out of peoples’ gardens.

And Mr Reuten, being his aunt's neighbour for years, had not taken a liking to him on an instinctual level. Which…seemed rather damn unfair to a smaller petulant Isaias. He’d been right of course. Especially after several incidents and one evening tea disaster—that unfortunate fact solidified to stone. Likely carved by Mr Reuten himself. 

Isaias ducked his head down. 

His aunt gave a delighted laugh, "He's grown, hasn't he?"

"Taller I suppose." 

A large scrutinising pale eye zeroed in on him, Isaias fought not to run behind his aunt for cover. "Only means more trouble." The senior man darkly muttered to himself.

Maywa chuckled with a good-natured attitude, slipping it into her bag for the keys, "Alright then, I'll swing back with some food! Oh, and do tell me if you need any more fertiliser for the magnolias." Giving a bright beaming smile.

Mr Reuten grunted, whipping around and pointing a bony finger at Isaias, "Away from my magnolias, you hear?" Mr Reuten growled, brows pinching.

"Yes, sir." Isaias strained a smile as he heard the pleasant sound of the keys unlocking the front door and hastily rolled his suitcase up the steps. Practically tripping over his feet. 

"Finalmente en casa," Maywa heaved gratefully, entering the wooden threshold. 

Isaias was greeted by familiar smells; a spike of oak, the tinge lavender freshener and the dust of citrus due to clean wooden floors in the air. It was nothing compared to the smell of something slowly cooking. 

Tomato and spices, the hum of salted fish wafting in the air. Isaias' breathing stuttered.

"Mhm,” Maywa practically grinned, “Jon must have finished the encebollado." Tossing her keys into a spiralled ceramic bowl and leapt out of her short heels, next to the other sets of messy pairs.

Maywa sped her way into her home, passing by the colourful woven tapestries draped on the walls, “You must be hungry— and, lord, it was hot out today! How about lemonade, yea’?”

Isaias blinked and stumbled after her. ‘Yes— thank you.’

All around him was filled with home. Colour, bright and with different shades around him, his throat began to work. them next to the other sets of messy pairs of shoes. The wide living room was illuminated by the sun. A vast collection of candles lay at every wooden varnished surface, handmade ceramic pieces sat proudly and at attention, as Jon’s beloved potted plants made their home at the corners of the wooden floors, practically overgrowing.

"Leave your things here," Maywa waved off as she blindly tossed her bag into a leather cushion, and went hurrying to the kitchen, "Let's see what Jon made today, nadie sabe en estos días!" Her bright lit laugh muffled into the other room.

"Smells like encebollado." Isaias said to no one in particular, smiling.

Taking his time to take a real look. Things had changed — of course, they had — DVDs, music disks and films were overstuffed in their cases as if someone had tried to just jam the pile in an orderly fashion, a multicoloured woven rug splayed over the wooden floors, stretched to the corners of the room. Framed photos were carefully placed all across the oak furniture, some old, a handful were worn and battered of a different time, and there were a far greater number of fresher snaps of still memories held by curiously glittery encasings.

Isaias gently set his bag at the edge of the leather couch, suitcase pressed against it. A dull ache worked up in his chest, silently, Isaias buried it and turned to the kitchen.

The kitchen was sacred, everyone knew that. Jon and Maywa adored the green glazed wall tiles, pale-yellow blooming flowers curling in the middle, the stretch of cream floors and the few cracks in the slabs, the tall granite countertops and the chestnut wooden cupboards and the many cabinets.

The smell of good was rich enough that it danced on Isaias' tongue.

Maywa hung over the cooking hob with a great dazzling glint in her eyes, and turned to Isaias, “Can you smell that? Jon cooked it so well—” Snatching a clean spoon, dipped into the thick soup for a quick cheeky taste, and gave an affectionate chuckle, “Still picky with the tomatoes that man is.”

And promptly shoved a spoon in Isaias' face, and without much of a thought he sipped. 

An old habit from a childhood filled with an abundance of whipped-up recipes and an unsaid contention of staple dishes being thrust in front for his esteemed appraisal has rather dulled his natural instinctual hesitation.

Isaias bit into soft yuka, taking the spoon for himself as Maywa spun on her heel, set a small pot on the stove, a snap of still blue flames and set two rather curious hand-made ceramic bowls on the counter. All with a clunk, a fire of ticks and two unified thunks.

Dropped the singular spoon into the sink and made quick work with the utensils and by the next moment Isaias dropped into a chair as a copious filled bowl of soup was dragged under his nose.

Maywa took a seat, setting down a small dish of finely chopped onions and cilantro between them, “It’s just going to be us for lunch,” She said regretfully, passing over chopped slices of lemon, ”Jon should be getting off work to pick up the kids, they should be around here an hour or two.”

Isaias was profoundly grateful for the fact. Yet, nerves refused to settle, shoving spoonfuls of encebollado into his mouth as Maywa went on about a very eventful week she’d just had. It gave him something to focus on, lighting his chest as Isaias basked in bright filled memories with every spoonful. 

His aunt widened her eyes, a surprised sound leaping out of her, “I knew I forgot something!” Jumping out of her chair to open the oven, a distinct red bowl sat within.

“Aha!” Maywa cheered, and quickly set the ceramic down, drawing back the flowery tea towel and revealing a grand pile of bolon de verdes. Isaias' heart soared, “He did tell me he was making something else—” She picked two hefty treats and plated them in a napkin, sliding one to him, “Of course, it had to be a surprise! It’s your favourite, you should’ve seen him in the kitchen yesterday  — the minute he knew you’d be coming, Jon whipped out the recipe and went right to cooking.”

Isaias ignored the tight clump within him and took an eager bite, crispy fried plantain, savoury meat and the touch of cheese, “It’s good. It’s really good,” Isaias grins, taking another greedy bite, “Definitely missed this, can’t believe he made all of this yesterday. And just putting this out there, Jon still wins y’know.”

Maywa sputters out a loud laugh, “I can’t believe you!” Hands covering her full laughing cheeks, “You're meant to be on my side, remember? You’re my nephew! Jon still dangles that win in my face proudly — with the most smuggest smug face to ever smug this entire smug world — !”

Isaias cracks, and laughs. When he was younger Jon and Maywa had an unspoken competition, now, no one truly knew who or what started it all but one thing was for certain the kitchen was their battleground. Spatulas wielded as weapons, opposite counters as their stations and their soldiers came in the form of steaming plated recipes whipped up out of sheer rallied drive. And their judges, none other than curious children waiting for a glimpse of another treat to be placed on the counter.

It had been a fairly normal active day for an eight-year-old Isaias till he was placed down on a chair with two bolon de verde suspiciously plated in front of him. Not that it mattered at the time, he was happy to munch down without further ado. So when he was asked which he’d preferred, the boy happily answered honestly, eager for another serving. Isaias still remembers how his aunt staggered back with her hand over her chest as a slow grin made its way onto Jon’s face, handing over a dozen more to his plate. It had been a dark day for his aunt.

After loads of unbridled giggles, they made quick work putting everything back in order.