A house that was made of concrete with no heater and one bathroom  — running inside, we all huddled in the living room. My mom and my aunt went straight to the last room of the house, coming back with blankets. Wrapping myself with the blanket I recognized the smell of it; it was the one my aunt had made for my great grandfather. 
The last time I saw him was six years ago; I had heard through my cousins that he had gotten surgery for his pelvis due to injury, and once again for his knees a couple years later. It wasn’t until the last few months that he was having larger health issues — his vision, hearing, and memory were going fast. During his recovery, my aunt spent every bit of her free time knitting it for him. His memory may have been leaving him, but he somehow knew that the blanket sitting on his lap was meant for him. 
I won’t lie when I say I cried. His musky smell was emanating from that blanket and all those memories I had of him flooded through my mind. He had often said to not cry for him — since he knew he would be joining my late great grandmother soon. How he knew that, I might never be able to understand; yet he knew.  I asked my aunt if it was all right to bring the blanket back home with me. It was the final keepsake of his, even if it was tattered up and falling apart at that point. It didn’t matter to me, though. She said she would once she fixed it — I had received it via mail weeks later. It was restored to its original form  — the same way she gifted it to him. It still smells like him, even after all these years. 

– Cynthia Padilla

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant