My grandmother was a tiny woman with soft wrinkled hands, and eyes that would sparkle when she laughed. She was a quiet woman that was more interested in observing than being the center of attention.
She grew up in a small town in Mexico and married when she was 16. Two weeks after her marriage, her mother went to her and told her that the marriage had all been a lie. Her “husband” was married to another woman and the “priest” that had conducted the ceremony, wasn’t really a priest. He was just the friend of the “husband”. My grandmother left him. She was already pregnant with her first child.
My grandmother remarried, and my mother was born. They split up, and my grandmother ended up raising the kids. She ran a boarding house and spent much of the day cleaning (go figure, a Mexican cleaning). She was a strict mother. When my mother and uncle were making too much noise, she would go to them and tell them that she was going to throw herself down the stairs if they didn’t stop the racket. When my mom told me that story I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. Who says that?? I’ve since adopted it as my own-though I my usage of the phrase is not intended to be harsh like hers was.
She was a devout Catholic and there was a time when she went to church everyday. Growing up, my sister and I would tease her about it. My sister could always rile her up by asking her how she knew that God wasn’t a woman. It was amusing to us.
She lived in Mexico, but spent much of the year with us here in the states. The last time she visited us, she brought me all her pictures. She said that she wasn’t going to need them anymore, and I remember I told her not to say those things. She passed away a few months later.
When my cousins went to clean out her house in Mexico, they said there was nothing left, not a single scrap of paper. She had packed up everything and brought it with her. She knew it was her time. She chose to be with us. She came here to die.
It was 7 years ago today.
