We Stood in the Kitchen, Talking About You

The evening light shone with a great final effort through the thick white blinds in the kitchen of your parents' house. I sat on the worn, brown kitchen stool, watching as your dad carefully folded the mixture of tuna, tomatoes, and spices into the white circles of dough. Empanadillas. 
Eventually, the conversation drifted like a lazy bumblebee to the topic of your parents' oldest son: you.
Misael siempre ha sido muy bueno. 
Misael has always been good.
Your mom told me that as a baby you slept, ate, and played well. Because Misael was such a good baby, I decided to have more kids. But they weren't as easy.
She tells me all this while pulling on yellow rubber gloves- she always wears them to do dishes.
Your mom told me how even when you fight with her, it's more like a discussion. We've never heard you raise your voice. We stood there in the kitchen, talking about all the goodness in you. The humbleness of your brown eyes and the gentleness of your soul.
Your dad slid the pan of crescent moon empandillas into the oven and dutifully start folding again.
The sun was faded now and the kitchen was dim. Just then you walked upstairs from the basement and smiled "what are you guys talking about?"
You. ❤️