The arepa was the only thing that lingered from my old life. My aunt Doris, who raised me before I came to the U.S., was the first to introduce me to the magic of a warm arepa — simple, golden, and filled with love.

Even now, every bite feels like time travel. A soft crunch, a hint of salt, and suddenly I’m back in San Joaquín, barefoot in the kitchen, watching her hands move with practiced rhythm. It’s more than food — it’s memory. It’s home wrapped in cornmeal, nostalgia tucked between the layers.

After I migrated in 1996, I wasn’t able to return to Venezuela for over a decade due to my immigration status. Years passed. She grew older. The doctors told our family she only had a few months to live — but somehow, she held on.

When I was finally able to go back in 2008, I rushed to see her. By then, she had lost most of her memory. But when she heard I was coming, she got up from her bed — fragile, but full of purpose — and said, “Tengo que hacerle arepa a mi niña.”

She knew. She had waited. She wouldn’t leave this world until she made one more arepa for her girl.