The People You Love Never Truly Die

Both of my grandmas and my aunt died last year. The circle of my family evaporating at the edges. The water, them, so tangible as it spills onto the floor. Soon after, it’s gone back into the ether almost like it didn’t, they didn’t, exist at all. Until the water returns in a late July rain or the morning dew. They also return on their own time. The sweet taste of caldo de res so much like my aunt’s. The smell of pan dulce that reminds me of my weekly trip for my grandma’s favorite, empanadas de calabasa, that we’d eat while watching old shows like Rawhide or Wagon Train. The old purchases I made for my other grandma in my Instacart’s “Buy again” stream. They’ve written themselves everywhere.

I find them in the records of my old words, “My grandma said they came for her neighbor con las luces apagadas. / The quiet ambulance a metaphor for death.” Or the new ones I wrote in a weak attempt to say goodbye, “Down a long dirt road is where I will look for you / Kneeling to the earth with the earth for the earth / I will never know in which prayer I’ll find you.” They’ve written themselves everywhere. And every time I find these pebbles, I lose them all over again. Grief always appearing in a spiral.

Once you feel the finitude of life, it’s impossible to ignore how fleeting and impermanent we all are. Sometimes I’m hit with the realization that in less than 100 years, everyone I love will be gone. All I have is the elusiveness of memory to hang onto them all. Before I go to sleep, I sit in the room of my memory with my grandma. We’re in her room, and she’s watching me fall asleep. Her room is so warm, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. When I nod awake, she says, “¿Por que no te acuestes, m’ija?” as she pats the bed next to her. So, I just curl up beside her and fall asleep.

Some people build towers. Some people build planes or highways or satellites. Others build lives. Their soft hands taking their time to mold and shape who you are. Content that that’s their purpose in life. Determined to do the best they can. They’ve written themselves everywhere. Their blood is our blood. Their hands are our hands. Their lessons are our grace. And here we are all thanks to them.