An Unlikely Obituary: A Memotuary
I realize that obits are not my forte. Instead, I much rather write a memotuary; a recollection of memories about someone who sleeps elsewhere. This memotuary is inspired by Grandma.
(Yesterday, on October 4 at 6 a.m., Abuela Maria de La Luz Guerra took her last breath in Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico.)
Like many Latinas, my grandma is called “Maria,” but unlike others, her middle name means light while her last name connotes battle. Yes, she was a strong lady and I could go into a long essay on the merits of her name. However, we live in a time of “no time” + ADD + thumbs on scrolling screens.
With this in mind here are my top memories of her and in the present tense because she lives right now in our memorias:
Memoria 1 — Heroes Don’t Wear Capes
I’m 8 years old and knock out my tooth. Black covers my eyes. On the ground, the blood mixes with dirt. Consciousness wakes me only to see mother lunge forward with anger and fear. Out of nowhere, Maria de La Luz Guerra gets in between and takes the brunt of mom’s force. Grandma gives me Carlos V chocolate “to calm my nerves.”
I lost my tooth that day but gain her protection.
Memoria 2 — I Love Me Some Puma
Grandma only knows one man in her lifetime and to be honest, barely, but that’s another story. And it’s sacrilegious to think of my grandma’s sexuality but we giggle when Jose Luis Rodriguez “El Puma” takes the stage on “Siempre en Domingo.” I rush to the kitchen — where she spends most of the time — to alert her. Her eyes twinkle and with a quiet smile in tow she makes her way to the bedroom. Now her hands rest on her lap and looks up to the small black and white TV screen.
Grandmas can have crushes too.
Memoria 3 — She’s a Chicken Assasin
We’re alone in the back yard. Maria stands across from me and says little. The chicken clucks by her feet. Now she looks at me and then grabs the chicken by the neck and gives a gentle twist. She picks the body while the separated head gasps for air. I don’t eat that day.
Memoria 4 — Where Shaolin Masters Learn the “No Spill” Technique
There’s no water. Down the street, a neighbor offers her spigot. I follow Grandma with empty buckets. We fill them and make our way back. With all my strength, I try not to spill water. The ground beneath her is dusty and dry. Above the midday sun is bright and within my chest I feel a tingle. It’s the first time I feel pride. I can walk alongside her. (I should have stayed longer.)
Memoria 5 — The Entrance is Really a Secret Garden
We rarely step inside the house via the main entrance, always have to get inside through the kitchen door. And to get there we have to pass within her garden which measures about 25 feet in length. In this waterless town, she grows roses, pomegranates, geraniums, maravillas and even grapes. Folgers containers serve as pots. At night, I wander in the garden and pull epazote for my ailing stomach. She brews it and I drink. During storms, the garden floods but we run and splash around in the mud. In times like this the garden is grander than Disney World.
Memoria 6 — And I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings
I don’t know if I’ll ever own canaries, but she loves them dearly. And when they sing inside her cage she almost cries in joy. Their home is no cage but a place to birth an entire crew.
And right now I realize I can be a poor writer because I can hear Grandma’s laughter but can’t describe it clearly. We know that she rarely uses it but when she does it’s deep and from within her belly. Sometimes I greet my cats the same way.
Memoria 7 — Yves Saint Laurent Approves
She comes toward me with the belt but tightens it across my waist.
“You don’t have a waist, this will help.”
My cousin Celina laughs. I end up with a beautiful waist.
Memoria 8 — A Collegiate Hello and Farewell
It’s 3 a.m. and she kisses my cheek. I left the country long ago to become a stranger. Despite this, she welcomes me with restrained cries. I realize I am beloved like a canary. Already on the table are beans, flour tortillas and tamales. When I leave she gives me her arracadas, her earrings. (I should remember this memory more often.)
Memoria 9 — Keep Calm Under Pressure
Maria uses a pressure cooker. I come home from school and the kitchen door is wide open. She sits quietly and breathes heavily. Her dress is drenched. Underneath it the skin remains red.
My aunts are a couple of feet away. Everyone is quiet. There’s water every where.
Memoria 10 — She Doesn’t Have a Gambling Problem but…
she enjoys Mexican bingo. Ms. Guerra even has her lucky tabla and writes her name on the back. Her pleasure grows when the stakes are high and we play pozito — a sort of double or nothing approach to the game.
And when she says “buenas” it’s quiet and always sure. We’re happy for her.
Memoria 11 — Despite her Tough Life, She Never Forgot the “Flor de Capomo” Song
Maria can barely stand in old age but can’t help but dance when she hears it. And I learn that her favorite song is about courtship.
A man enters a woman’s kitchen and takes a seat. She pretends not to see him but deep down inside she beams.
Grandma is a romantic and I am her granddaughter.
