Written by Karen Baumgart
My husband leaves our hotel room to ask for fresh towels, but the housekeeping
woman doesn’t speak any English (bless him, he’s earnestly telling her we’re in
room 1208 as she’s asking toallas? toallas?) and despite the blurred brain-fog of a
thirty-two-hour journey from Australia to New York, a clumsy phrase flutters from me in the
way of a small bird through an open door after being trapped inside; I try to
apologise for the rusted tangle of my Spanish, but the woman’s face lights up, now
quite certain she can help us, so delighted that someone in this shabby hallway
understands what she is saying…and suddenly, joy turns slowly in my chest like a
carousel, because this may just be a conversation about towels, but it’s real in a
way I’ve longed for since my abuelita died, as real as the bedtime prayer she would
sing when tucking me in, the one about los angelitos—I can no longer remember
the words, only their drowsy warmth, like fuzzy socks after a bath—the lilting
melody cradling my five-year-old self, preparing her for this very moment decades
later, sweet sorrow lingering across my tongue as the words fly towards home.
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Karen Baumgart lives in Australia and adores beautiful quotes, pink things, cats, and chai lattes. She used to be an English teacher, and is quite certain that writing is, indeed, the best therapy. Instagram: @miss.cake.girl Bluesky: @cake-girl.bsky.social Twitter / X: @cake_girl__