I cannot recall the first time I looked at my grandparents' house; it always felt like a constant presence in my life, standing resilient amidst a country known for its lack of being constant.
For generations, our family had filled the halls and rooms of that house, our central hub since the 1950s.
It had witnessed gatherings, birthday celebrations, weddings, farewells, and the marking of significant milestones
In the courtyard enclosed by those low walls, I recall, as a single scene although I'm certain it's a compilation of countless moments, my uncle Javier on a Friday night explaining an obvious move in dominoes. Meanwhile, my dad and his neighborhood friends shouted in the typical exuberance of the game. My cousins Danna, Johnny, and Daniel sat laughing, and my brothers Maximiliano and Alexander simply discussed their week.
My sisters Isamar, Veronica, and Patricia were near our grandmother, with the dog beside her and numerous grandsons running around, and my sister Rubimar behind them. Despite being in a quite dangerous city, those low fences that I failed to appreciate created a sense of community.
Regardless of our normalcy within those walls, the economic crisis gripping Venezuela began to unravel the fabric of our family.
As the country collapsed, some stayed, but the vast majority of my siblings, uncles, cousins, and nephews sought better opportunities and safer havens. Departing one by one, the once vibrant house became inhabited only by my father. Laughter, love, arguments, music, the barking of the dog, and the sound of the kitchen gave way to emptiness and silence, that constant activity and hustle were replaced by eerie quietness that I never wanted to like because it was a poignant reflection of the crisis's toll on our family.