The house was a mirror image of its inhabitants. An aura of obsessive cleanliness lurked in the air, though each room was extremely mismatched and disorganized. Colors did not coordinate, furniture and decorations consumed every nook and cranny. The most absurd objects—miniature cat-shaped statues, sparkling bowls filled with sweets, family photographs, and artificial floral arrangements that clashed the worn botanical couches and rugs—lined the tables, walls, staircases, and countertops, clearly having been collected and hoarded for many years.

A large armoire rested directly in front of a flat screen television that had been placed on a shelf against the wall. It was coated with a thick layer of dust that swirled in a patch of sunlight creeping through the heavily curtained windows. It looked oddly out of place, surrounded by such inexpensive and outdated objects. Nearly all the items aside from the television and framed family photographs looked as though they had been purchased from a thrift shop.

A number of cats ran amok throughout the house, travelling from room to room. Their sulky eyes glared out from around the corners, watching observantly at every creak of the floorboards. They moved with such speed that it was impossible to keep track of how many there were. They were well groomed and tended to, clearly treated like royalty. Their owners seemed to care for them better than how one might care for a child.

The residence was relatively small, despite the extensive quantities of cats and trifles that spilled from each room. But it housed only two people, an older couple. One was a woman, a Cuban native who spent her days cleaning the kitchen counter, scrubbing the floors, and grooming the cats. The other was a tall man, born and raised in Brooklyn, who was ordered about constantly by the woman to do housework and go on errands. He referred to her as his Sergeant. Together they lived simple, quiet lives.

I have not been to that house in nearly two years.

Many of my days as a child were spent there, chasing the cats with my brother, helping my grandmother with chores, feeding the ducks and raccoons with my step-grandfather, or sneaking candy each time I walked past the massive bowl in the living room. Today, I only get the chance to visit my grandparents at their house in Florida for a few weeks about once a year. Each time I step across the threshold of their front door, I am overcome with a sense of deja-vu. I am reminded so forcefully of my childhood, and can vividly recall many of the events that happened there in the past.

Their house is a place where I can, and have always been able to fully embrace my culture. Aside from my grandfather and mother, everyone present in the house when I am there can speak Spanish. My grandmother cooks me Cuban meals and desserts, watches telenovelas with me, and plays her favorite Spanish music on an ancient record player. It is comforting being in a place where I feel like I truly belong. Despite the heated fights that occur occasionally, I have never been more happy in a place than I have at my grandparents’. I get both a strange and bittersweet feeling each time I visit, especially as I grow older.

Leaving is perhaps the worst part, but not because my long-awaited vacation is ending, marking the conclusion of my summer break. There is something else that makes leaving so difficult for me. I dread seeing the look on my grandmother’s face as our car pulls out of my grandparents’ driveway. Each time, she wears a mask of plain defeat. I have never seen anyone look to be so hopeless in my life. In the past, I remember not wanting my family to see how upset it made me leaving my grandparents behind, so I wore sunglasses to conceal my tears. I took the time I spent there as a child very much for granted. Now each time I go, I feel a small yet increasing level of fear that this will be the last time I get to be with my grandparents in their home. Until then however, I will cherish the time I have left.