What little Spanish I knew was entirely incidental, absorbed from my abuelita, who lived in the apartment downstairs from ours. The smell of her Marlboros and the sound of her telenovelas would often penetrate the thin floorboards that separated us. Every day she’d come up for a cafecito with my mom or to help wash the dishes. If I ventured downstairs, it was usually to admire her collection of elephants and odd figurines. I knew the visit was over when she yelled out, “No se tocan!” For a while I thought it meant goodbye.