Memoria

Dedicado a mi Papis y Abes

Someone once told me that the Beautiful to them is the sun hitting their back. There is something in feeling a sensation through a passionate description. There is something about my skin feeling the sun hitting my back. Do you feel it? He asked me as he closed his dark eyes.

         I went to the beach this past summer. Mi abuela was sick this same summer. Sitting on the beach with her, thinking este podría ser mi último recuerdo con ella. This feeling, this moment, felt like the sun hitting my back on a cloudy day at the beach in Nicaragua.

         Este podría ser mi último recuerdo, a sentiment that haunts me, because I don't have many. I don't have enough memories. If she goes, I am afraid that I don't have enough to hold on to. I am afraid of history repeating.

I was just a kid when he passed. He didn’t remember anymore. His memory was cruelly robbed from him. He died in a far-off unknown, alien land. I remember long nights, keeping my mom and him company. I would sleep on the couch. I never understood why Papi kept softly crying out, “¿Dónde estoy? Quiero ir a casa”, as his wrinkled hand wiggled the child-locked doorknob. A part of me wanted to let him out of his prison. The doctor came a la casa the next day. He told us that he was ready to go, but they are not sure why he is holding on so tight. I think he was waiting to go home before going home. A part of me knows he missed the beaches. He missed his family and their land. He wanted to feel the sun hitting his back one last time. He didn’t remember our memories, but maybe I was relieved. If he can’t remember, then I don’t have to feel the shame of not making enough. I was undeserving of the tears shed in his memory. I sobbed, for what? For who?

When I was little, I couldn’t say Abuela; it sounded more like Abe. Mi Abuela became mi Abe. I remember visiting Abe and Papi. A warm hug, then I would go and play with Simba, the dog named after a cat. I tell myself I was just a kid. I couldn’t have known. But I think I did. As I pet Simba, I hear the grandfather clock tick. The tick was quiet, but I heard it. I ignored it for too long, and my white-haired Papi, who stomped his slippers every time Simba walked by, passed. I have been left searching for memories. I pester my brain, saying there must be something to hold on to. I remember holding his cold hand in the casket; I can’t remember his warm one. I blame myself for not being able to say Abuela.

I am first. I am part of the first generation born on the land mi Papi tried to escape. My parents spoke our native tongue, I responded as the good assimilated American I am, in English. A language that built a wall. A barrier between mi Papi and me. Como estas mi niño, I responded “good.” I knew how to say bien, but I didn’t. Tongue-tied, I could never muster the courage to speak. My brown skin reddened at the thought of not being brown enough.

I was always jealous of my white classmates, sharing stories of their visits to grandma’s. I didn’t fit. I thought maybe if I am white, I would. The fear of not being brown enough to make memories constantly fought the desire to fit in. Every day after school, I couldn't wait for my Dad to pick me up, my favorite part of the day. He spoke Spanish, he spoke English, they sounded the same in my ear. But to my classmates, they sounded funny. I sobbed in the bathroom one day when I was told my Dad sounded “homeless.” His accent, which I had never noticed before, was too thick, was too ghetto. I can't tell you if I cried for my father, or if I cried because I didn't want to be like him. Maybe it was the overwhelming fear of looking and sounding different. My English needed to be white. If it's brown, it's unintelligent, dirty, lazy, homeless sounding.

This fear wasn’t broken in time. I let Papi go, without even trying. While desperately hunting for memories, I captured one. Papi was already forgetting when I had a sudden wave of courage. Stumbling over my words I asked, “Papi que es tu favorito resturante,” hoping to maybe take him before it's too late. He responded stumbling over his words “Los Ranchos.” I energetically looked at my mom for her to tell me where it is and when we can go. Her eyes began to water and she just shook her head. Los Ranchos is in Nicaragua. I like to think mi Papi is eating all the Ranchos he can right now. I like to think I can still have time to take mi Papi a Los Ranchos en la proxima vida.

Every memoria doesn’t have to be a conversation. I beat my mind thinking I must have spoken with him more, I must’ve said more. Maybe I did, regardless there are some things stronger than the spoken word. I remember Papi’s smile. I remember his hugs, quick and firm. I remember his smell. I remember his love for mi Abe. He could barely walk, but he would always serve her. I remember him trying to get her a glass of water and realizing his walker occupied his hands; somehow, someway, spilling some on the way, he got mi Abe her glass of water. I remember him, after days of sleeping, opening his eyes one last time, looking at every loved one in the room, confidently smiling, as if saying goodbye, then closing them peacefully for one last time. Recuerdo que él me ama.

Seeing mi Abe’s pain changed something in me. I remember mi Abe crying in my arms at the funeral. I told Papi on that day that I would take care of her for him. I would get her that glass of water. I wish I could have told him I would stop being embarrassed of my broken spanish. It has taken me years. It took the reminder of the grandfather clock’s tick to break my fear. 

I fulfilled mi Papi’s dying desire this past summer; I went home. I went to the most beautiful beach in the world, in the most beautiful country: Nicaragua. Mi Abe was sick this same summer. Sitting on the beach with her thinking este es un hermoso recuerdo. This moment in Nicaragua was when I stopped caring. I stopped caring how I sounded, if I sound too white, if I sound too brown, I don’t care. I speak my broken native tongue without thinking about myself; I think of Papi. I think of all the questions I could have asked him. I think of mi Abes still here, each with a ticking clock. I think of all the memorias I can still make, all the questions I can still ask, all the stories I can still hear. I was selfish to let my embarrassment control my tongue. So now in my broken American Spanish, I speak.

El coche estaba oscuro. La noche estaba acabando. El viaje fue accidentado. Mi Abe se sentó a mi lado. Me dijo: “Me duele la espalda”. Me dijo: “No me queda mucho tiempo”. Me dijo: “Esta semana fue especial”. Me dijo: “Gracias por venir”. Me preguntó: “¿Volverás?”. Le prometí que sí. La rodeé con el brazo, masajeándole la espalda dolorida. Apoyó la cabeza en mi hombro. El muro que nos separaba de Papi se desvaneció con ese toque. La barrera del idioma desapareció. Me susurró al oído durante el resto del accidentado viaje: “No sé si tendré otra oportunidad de decírtelo”. Me dejó con consejos, historias, oraciones; todo lo cual guardo en mi corazón. Creo que los guardaré para mí y para mi Abe. El coche aminoró la marcha, avanzó lentamente, se detuvo con un chirrido. Me iba de casa, de Nicaragua, de mi Abe. La abracé, me besó; extraño esa sensación roja y pegajosa. Dijo “Te veo pronto”, sabiendo que quizá no, dejé caer una lágrima en su hombro. Me recompuse. Me alejé. Me di la vuelta. La abracé de nuevo. Y pensé: Este podría ser mi último recuerdo con ella.

The car was dark. The night was ending. The drive was bumpy. Mi Abe sat by my side. She told me, “My back is hurting.” She told me, “I don’t have much time left.” She told me, “This week was special.” She told me, “Thanks for coming.” She asked me, “Are you coming back?” I promised her, yes. I put my arm around her, massaging her hurt back. She put her head on my shoulder. The wall between Papi and me melted away at this touch. The language barrier disappeared. She whispered in my ear for the rest of the rocky ride, “I don’t know if I will get another chance to tell you.” She left me with advice, with stories, with prayers; all of which I hold in my heart. I think I will keep these for me and mi Abe. The car slowed, crawled, screeched to a stop. I was leaving home, leaving Nicaragua, leaving mi Abe. I threw my arms around her, she kissed me; I miss that red sticky feeling. She said, “I’ll see you soon,” knowing I might not, I let a tear drop on her shoulder. I composed myself. Walked away. Spun around. Gave her one more hug. And thought este podría ser mi último recuerdo con ella.

Mi Abe once told me that the Beautiful to her is living with a ticking clock. There is something about that week at home that felt like the sun constantly hitting my back. Do you feel it?