I read a manga today called Goodbye, Eri. I don’t want to expose too much of the story, but the concept of using art as a form to honor a loved one's life made me pause. I think especially because January is the month that would have been Mom’s birthday. She would have been 71 this year. A few days before she became 58, on January 9th, we lost her. I sometimes add snippets of her here, but I have not painted the best portrait of who she was. So I think here, I want to do it a bit more justice. I will never quite reach describing her properly, but I hope this vignette can honor her better.
CRGG was born on January 13, 1955. Her mother was R, and her father was C. They raised her and her 3 siblings in a low-income community in Ponce. They made a living with a small food business, mainly making pasteles. Mom, by all accounts, was a sassy person from the start. I have been told she had her dad in the palm of her hand. He would make her all the foods she liked, and often gave her an allowance to buy herself pretty things. But my mom would usually extend her hand again for more money, as my grandfather grumbled and gave her an extra dollar or so. I do not know much of her early years, except that she was a happy young lady, going to dances with friends.
At one of these dances, she met my father, who was stopping by on a Navy leave. It must have been a fairly whirlwind romance. They married, and he brought her to the US as he finished his Navy stint. They tried for years to have a child, but were not able for four years, when they had me. I was told the pregnancy wasn’t easy, and her blood pressure was dangerously low at the end. Labor was even harder, as the doctor realized I was tangled in my umbilical cord. They did an emergency c section and saved me. She never had another child.
My first decade was very hectic. We moved from FL to PR, back to FL, and then to NJ. My father was always restless, wanting to learn new things, and be in new places, and we followed him as his whims dictated. Mom was very sheltered, and very much outside her comfort zone so in that era, it felt she was simply just there to be as he needed. Dinner had to be done on time, she had to keep the home impeccable, she was busy raising me, and learning English via The Young and the Restless.
I never felt a trace then of the vivacious person she was purported to be.
When dad left, she shattered completely. But she was able to bring me to a safe place and raise me well. I remember my years in Puerto Rico and she always raised me like she trusted me. Even though I was young, I somehow understood that it was important to be worthy of her trust and to appreciate the freedom to exist as I am. She found work at the local hospital cleaning. She loved to clean. Having a clean home was her chief goal in life and she would often mop so much that it was hard to leave the room! If I dared extend even a toe to the freshly mopped floor, boy would I get it!! Sometimes she would trap me on purpose, laughing mischievously as I whined about not being able to leave a room.
Because she was a huge prankster. She joshed the neighbors, hollering at them from a block away. They all had a friendly political rivalry. I remember her stringing blue Christmas lights on a palm tree (blue palms represent the PNP party) and laughing as she pointed at it as the neighbors passed by. She blasted loud music, single-handledly set up the coffee break schedule with her coworkers, and always had her door open to anyone who just wanted company.
Because most of all, mom was generous. She was so giving that it sometimes took my breath away. I always envied her ease. She navigated life with this disarming combination of pure joy and generosity. I always felt an urge to protect her. As if I could sense that she was a gift and I never wanted her to stop being her. Maybe I remember how she almost lost it because of dad.
Because I want to celebrate her life, I don’t want to talk about her last year. But I will say that every molecule of goodness she had was paid a hundred fold. When the news came out that she was sick? The house never emptied. No matter how much destruction cancer wreaked on her, no one faltered or balked at being there for her. The house was never empty and we never lacked for help. Her hospital friends and neighbors supported us until the very end. Her life was too short. I wanted 50 more years of her laugh, of her trapping me in rooms after mopping, at her belting Marc Anthony songs horribly.
God… I still don’t feel this is good enough. But I’ll try again one day. At least I was able to put her story to words and crystalized her just a little more. She deserved it. And much much more.