Skip to main content

The Middle




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. 

Comments

  1. Thanks... it's never easy, but writing about it has helped.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...

Thursday's with Carolyn & the Smokey Special

Dim lighting and a smokey feel without the smell. The voice of the singer, Carolyn, wraps around me as I stand in the doorway. " Give me one reason to stay here..."  Groups of friends crowded around tables filled with amber glasses and dancing ice. Laughter erupts, and smiles grace the faces of those around me. Chatter overlaps and wraps around and changes and morphs like small waves, moving, with the flow of our chorused voices. " Come together, right now, over me..." We talk, we sing, bursts of laughter at the crescendo of our conversation punctuate our sentences. Small talk, big talk, serious talk, all mingled at one table where new friends, old friends, and family sit together. " " You say one love, one life...."  " What did that mean ?"       " Another mojito ?"      " Pictures! "      "We had a presentation today, last minute."   "I do translations."             " T...