
Sundays with Family
This personal work delves into the quiet, powerful impact of immigration, exploring how a simple family ritual can become a touchstone for home and belonging.
When I was little, I had a Sunday ritual with my dad. I’d quietly tiptoe into my parents’ bedroom, and without saying a word, he’d get up and take me to our favorite bakery — a big, well-known one in the city. There was always a long line, but we never had to wait; we were always the first. I got to choose most of the facturas, always picking the ones filled with dulce de leche.
Back home, my mom would be up, heating the kettle and preparing the mate. My dad would set the facturas on the table, take out his guitar, and start playing folklore songs. It was always the same ritual: my dad playing, my mom pouring the mate and singing along, and me listening to that sweet concert, feeling — just for a while — like an only child.
Maybe that’s why folklore music feels like home. And now, living far from Argentina, whenever I feel homesick, I make a mate, play those old songs, and go back — even for a moment — to those sweet mornings with my parents. That little ritual still brings me comfort, especially when I miss my dad.



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