This ceramic tile leaned on a kitchen shelf in my childhood home. I grew up in an intergenerational, traditional Greek home, my Grandma Toni’s home, the home her husband built, where my dad grew up, the home my family moved back into after he passed and before I was born. As an adult, I have new respect for my mom’s patience in residing with in-laws for so long. 

When my grandma passed in ‘94 and my Greek aunts and uncles sold the home, I remember standing in the kitchen, the outside dark after a long day packing boxes. I was about to be a 4th grader in a new town and all our belongings were in a van. Since nobody dares mess with a Greek matriarch’s kitchen, this tile was the last item to remain, my otherwise rebellious dad’s final statement of respect; in the future, no matter who may buy or sell this house, this kitchen will always be Toni’s. 

I quietly pocketed the tile, tucked it away surreptitiously when others waited outside, claiming I needed to use the bathroom one last time before driving to our new life.

“You’re not supposed to take that,” my much older brother’s friend Brandon scolded, the only person to witness my transgression. I looked at him defiantly and told him I didn’t care, somehow knowing this tile means more in my hands. “Just get in the car,” I responded. He did.

Today, this tile lives with me as a treasure, one I kept secret for years. Because of all the recipes she taught me and my memories baking and cooking with her, my kitchen is still Toni’s kitchen.

– Rebecca

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant