Like most Latino families, los De La Cruz thrive on the saturated, descriptive ebb-and-woe of our family history. We enact the same principles you’d find at any real family gathering: direct, unabashed brute love. We finesse light humor with sensational sarcasm, exploit weakness to embrace you in a hug later, and most importantly, reinforce the reality: que somos familia.

At the end of the evening, I found myself staggering on the planks of wood of my tio’s house. I made my way towards my grandmother’s room and sat. She was speaking of the pueblo and throwing out phrases like mi abuelo, mi mama, mi prima. With a few simple references, I had been transported to over a hundred years of family history. And then it occurred to me that I was standing in the presence of a treasure chest of memories and time.

I asked my grandmother what she did when she was alone and everyone was at work, something that she couldn’t live without. She picked up what was a half finished mantel, or tablecloth. She said she loved to knit, and I curiously asked when she had learned the craft. “It was at the age of ten when I first started to knit.” My arithmetic fails me at times, but 89 years of passion for something creative almost knocked me off my seat. Simply, I’d do anything to write, photograph, and play music for almost 90 years. In fact, I think we all would.