We
walked into the small viewing room. The swell of panic bubbled up into my chest
toward my tightly clenched jaw, teeth forced into one another, the urge to run overwhelming.
There were no windows in the small beige room, only dim fluorescent lighting
that cast shadows across faces and corners. I willed my feet to move in a forward motion
knowing I would regret not seeing her one last time before the cremation. As my
family walked forward, I lingered behind my mom and uncle as they broke into
tears. My mom’s back heaved up and down and the ache she must have felt escaped
with a low unnatural sound. My uncle sniffed and wiped at his checks while
standing still and simply staring, his hand rubbing my mom’s back in a
counterclockwise circle from time to time They blocked my view slightly and I stayed
back still waiting to see a sign that she was still going to look like my
grandma. Finally I stepped forward and looked down at my grandma, sleeping, the
sheet from her bed wrapped around her like a butterfly getting ready to leave
her cocoon. I began to choke again, my throat on fire as I tried to not walk
away, to run out of the tight beige room. My sister broke down beside me,
crying, shaking her, “Wake up Ita! Wake up!”, the volume in the room magnified
by the imminent silence and the speechless sounds of our grief. I shrank
further inside myself, muted, and I
found solace in smoothing my grandma’s hair back, tracing the bridge of her
nose with my hand trying to make myself not forget what she looked and felt like.
I stood there longer than the rest of my family, running my hand along the
planes of her face, trying to make the last imprint she would make in my life.
My family faded into the background, I stared at her sleeping face and tried to
imagine her getting ready for bed, to imagine the nightly ritual I had seen
countless times. I saw the faded little girl image of myself sitting in the
center of the bed watching her as she sang to herself, watching as she had
quietly gone to sleep, watching as she had quietly died alone.
Last night, I spent the evening laughing and talking with a group of women writers I'm proud to call friends. At the table, our conversation bounced around in English and Spanish about books and shows and general gossip. As we laughed, the music, a combination of cumbias and current pop Spanish hits, at times drowned us out, so we talked louder. We ate our nachos, enchiladas, and chimichanga. I felt safe. I got to forget just for a moment about the rest of the world. As soon as I got home, my phone overflowed with notification of the president's latest blunder. The warmth I had just felt faded just a little. The reality of the hatred many feel for people of color burst my bubble. I feel the weight of it on my body. I feel it chipping away at my usual hopeful demeanor.
I want to say,
'Dear People who Hate Us,
What have we done to you? Where did you learn to hate so hard? What have I done to you? Do you even know my family has probably been here longer than yours? Do you kno…
I want to say,
'Dear People who Hate Us,
What have we done to you? Where did you learn to hate so hard? What have I done to you? Do you even know my family has probably been here longer than yours? Do you kno…
I haven't experienced the death of a loved one. Yet. Through your words I could see myself in that situation.
ReplyDeleteThanks... it's never easy, but writing about it has helped.
ReplyDelete