We rely on tourists to boost our local economy. That’s something even little kids around here repeat before they learn what the word economy means. But it’s not like the tourists even know our predicament. And if they did... Would it mean anything to them? Would they back us up?

I make my way down the street and I feel like crying, noticing everything that I didn’t want to see this past year, once Grandma’s health started to decline.

There are more and more empty storefronts. The shops that have remained standing, most selling lace and leather sandals, seem deserted, doors and windows wide open like they’re trying to coerce new customers and tourists the same way they invite the cool sea breeze inside on muggy days.

Meanwhile, new businesses have popped up. Fancier. People from outside our neighborhood are taking over establishments that once belonged to Grandma’s friends. The old florist’s shop is now a store selling designer sunglasses.

Sunglasses!

Things around here are changing fast. Too fast. It makes me feel powerless, like I’m letting Grandma down.

She grew up in this neighborhood. She knew it like the back of her hand. And still, during our walks, she’d stand by the church and look out at the blue-green Atlantic ocean stretching into the horizon like it was her first time taking in the view. Like she was a tourist, pointing out every detail that caught her eye, every little thing that made her smile.

When I asked her why she did that, she told me that it was important to fall in love with one’s neighborhood over and over again.

It’s strange being back at Vozes without Grandma.

Every Saturday morning, we’d come to deliver a batch of bread, Mom staying behind to take care of Salt. Grandma would often linger for a few hours, chatting with Dona Selma, while I helped the volunteers with some of the games and activities at the day care.

When I step inside, Dona Selma is coming out of the kitchen.

My breath catches in my throat.

Today, she’s in that flowy yellow dress that pops against her dark brown skin, the one Grandma gifted to her. She said the color looked like it held all the sunshine in the world.

The memory makes me smile and want to cry at the same time.

A man steps out of the kitchen behind her, Silveira Construction written on his polo shirt. She gives him a disappointed smile when they shake hands.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, senhora,” he says on his way out.

She spots me in the back and her eyes light up.

“Lari! You’re here!” When she sees the box of bread in my arms, she rests her hands on her hips. “I told Alice not to worry. You Ramires women are too stubborn. But, thank you. It’s greatly appreciated.”