Holiday at Grandma's House reading Exercise

Elena pressed her forehead against the train window and watched the city fade into rolling green hills. Every summer she visited her grandmother in the village of San Felipe, but this year felt special. Grandma had written that the lemon trees were heavy with fruit and the old swing on the porch had been freshly painted.

When Elena arrived, warm spice and citrus filled the air. She unpacked her suitcase in the guest room that overlooked the courtyard, then hurried to the kitchen. Grandma stood by the stove stirring a pot of cinnamon arroz con leche, humming the lullaby she used to sing when Elena was little.

As they set the table for dinner, Grandma mentioned that Maya, Elena’s childhood friend from the neighboring house, would be visiting the next day. Elena felt a spark of excitement and a flutter of nervousness. It had been three years since they last met, and she wondered if they would still laugh at the same stories.

The next morning Elena woke to the sound of roosters and the scent of baking bread. After breakfast she walked to the orchard, where the lemon trees stretched in neat rows. She reached up to pick a ripe fruit and heard the creak of the gate behind her. Maya stepped into view, now taller and wearing a straw hat speckled with flour from helping her own grandmother.

They ran toward each other and laughed as if no time had passed. Maya handed Elena a small jar of guava jam wrapped with a blue ribbon. The girls spent the morning checking the tree house they built years ago, brushing away cobwebs and weaving wildflowers through the railing.

By afternoon they were in Grandma’s kitchen, kneading dough for empanadas while sharing stories from school. Elena talked about her city robotics club, and Maya described the mural she was painting on the community center wall. Grandma listened with a smile, handing them aprons embroidered with their initials.

On the final evening of the holiday, Grandma hosted a small bonfire in the courtyard. Fireflies drifted over the lemon trees while neighbors arrived carrying woven baskets of corn tamales. Maya’s family joined them, and the two girls sat side by side on the porch steps, their hands sticky with roasted marshmallows.

As the flames faded, Elena and Maya traded tiny gifts: a bracelet of sea-glass beads from Elena’s city beach and a sketch of their tree house drawn in Maya’s swirling style. They promised to send messages every month, attaching photos of their latest projects.

The next morning Elena packed her suitcase with jars of jam, crocheted coasters, and the fragrant memories of the courtyard. She hugged Grandma and Maya tightly, knowing that even though the holiday was ending, their shared stories would keep them close until the next visit.

A year later, Elena returned for another holiday, this time arriving with a sketchbook of city street scenes to share with Maya. On the first day back, Grandma suggested a walk to the Saturday market that lined the plaza, a twenty-minute stroll along cobbled lanes shaded by jacaranda trees. Elena and Maya linked arms, listening to the rhythmic clatter of horse carts and the distant strum of a guitarist warming up for the evening fiesta.

The market dazzled Elena with colors and scents. Vendors leaned over their stalls, calling out prices in friendly sing-song voices. One table displayed pyramids of dried chilies in crimson, amber, and chocolate brown; another offered woven shawls that shimmered with sunrise hues. At the spice stall, an elderly woman ground cacao nibs and cinnamon on a stone metate. She noticed Elena’s curiosity and invited both girls to crush roasted coffee beans, explaining how each aroma told a story about the hillside where it grew.

Maya led Elena to the back of the plaza where a fountain splashed silver arcs of water. There she introduced Elena to her new friend Diego, a local photographer who volunteered at the community art studio. Diego showed them a series of prints he took of market life—close-ups of laughing faces, textiles fluttering in the breeze, and farmers balancing baskets of guavas on their heads. Inspired, the trio decided to collaborate on a memory journal: Elena would sketch, Maya would paint, and Diego would contribute photographs.

As the sun dipped behind the hills, Grandma waved them over to a food stall run by Maya’s uncle. They shared plates of grilled corn dusted with lime salt, cups of sweet atole, and slices of papaya sprinkled with chili sugar. On the walk home, Elena felt the gentle tug of belonging; the village no longer felt like a temporary escape but another home woven into her story.