Faded photos from the late seventies are what I have as a keepsake from my mother’s second marriage. They’re pictures from the reception they had at my grandma’s house. The walls in the background are a greenish-blue with brown molding. The people in the background are all caught in mid-laughter or with cake-loaded forks about to go in their mouths. The women have big hair; one of my aunts has a huge afro that shrinks her face. The men all need a haircut, and they look hot and sweaty with their long side burns and handlebar mustaches. I’m not sure where they got married; I’ve never asked. They look happy. My mother is wearing a white sleeveless satin wrap dress. Her face is youthful and plump. Her eyes shine even in the matte finish. She is my age in the photos. My dad is in a blue polyester suit. His smile is bright. He looks at my mother with love in his eyes. They looked happy.
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...
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