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