Aerie InternationaL - Missoula County Public Schools

something strong that makes me want to sneeze, too. Probably some
medicine. Mom glances at me and nods her head, so I grab Jane’s hand and
try to situate myself on the large armrest. As I reach down to hug Abuelita,
she starts as if she were going to talk. But I know she won’t, so I burrow my
head into her braid and whisper.
Afterwards, I back away towards the kitchen, the perfect view, and
pretend I’m minding Catalina playing with our cousin on the floor. Mom’s
giving Abuelita a rinse now. She dips the
rough washcloth into a bowl of hot water
and rubs it onto her twisted arms. Mom
laughs, telling Abuelita about the time
Catalina threw a fit at Target because she
saw a girl wearing the feathered tiara she
wanted. Even though I know Mom wants to, she can’t cry. Abuelita will see
her. I walk to the refrigerator, open it, feel the rush of cool fall over me, and
cry for her instead.
V. You Are My Sunshine
I call Mom’s cell frantically, wishing she would pick up her dumb phone.
She’s been gone all night—on New Year’s Eve, too. Jane, Catalina, and I sit
on our knees next to the window and peer through the blinds, watching the
fireworks in an attempt to entertain ourselves.
Catalina hears the rumble of the garage door first, and we all sprint down
the stairs. “Where were y—,” Catalina starts irritably as the door opens, but
I shush her. Mom’s holding a small mountain of tissues in her hands. There
are deep nail marks on her arms, as if she’s been clutching herself, and sticky
tearstains on her cheeks. We follow her quietly to Catalina’s room, and the
bolt clicks when Jane closes the door.
“Did she…?” I falter, before I see Jane’s glare. Mom gives a half-nod and
doesn’t bother wiping the tears that are starting to run down her face again.
Her body gives a massive heave, and she speaks with a halt. “She died crying.
She died crying! Ay, dios mio, oh my God, oh my God.” My vision blurs, and I
lie on the floor, mimicking my mom with soft shudders. Catalina doesn’t
know what is going on, so she pets Mom’s head, her small fingers running
through the stiff knots. I can’t breathe; my tongue feels heavy and there’s a
kink in my throat. “Mommy,” I plead and turn to face her. “Mommy, maybe
it was better for her to go. She was suffering so much and—and, now she
doesn’t have to.” I don’t think she hears me.
VI. A Nap
Everyone around me is praying, fingertips touching their lips, mouthing
Ave Maria in unison. I clasp my hands together, but don’t say anything. I
just listen to the soft Spanish tongue cradling my abuelita as she sleeps.
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Even though I know Mom
wants to, she can’t cry.
Abuelita will see her.