Gimmesanity

We’re in San Angelo, TX. The girls and I are adapting, getting used to our new surroundings. Spending our days making friends and exploring the area.
A real update to come.
Until then, enjoy our flight video from Officer Training School.
I miss my buddies.

I was sad today.
Maybe it’s all the rain.
So much rain, for the past 6 days. Nothing but rain.
Yesterday, I waited outside for a friend.
Not realizing that it was more than a drizzle, I didn’t bring an umbrella.
I didn’t mind, though.
I stood on that corner and watched the drops darken my orange sweater.
Watched the water pool on the tops of my clogs.
Rain fell from the skies and I looked up and opened my eyes wide
and the droplets became tears.

This evening, I was feeling in need of a hug
so I went into the office and crawled onto Alan’s lap and put my head on his shoulder
and just sat there while tears traveled down the tip of my nose and onto his arm.
Monkey came in and asked if I was sad.
I said, “A little.”
“Is it because Papito died?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sad because you lost your dad?”
“Yes.”
She rubbed my back and said, “It’s OK to be sad, Momma.”
Then she draped my shawl over my shoulders.

Bean woke up yesterday morning and smiled.
I picked her up and nuzzled her neck, made her laugh.
That’s when I realized that her breath is changing.
Soon, no more sweet baby breath in the mornings.

Next week, I turn 31.
My cousin asked me if I had any plans. For a moment, I didn’t know what she meant.
Plans? For what?
Oh, my birthday.
Yeah…um, no.
I tried to picture it in my head. What would next Sunday be like?
I’ll be at home.
The girls will be in bed, so it’ll be evening.
Outside, I’ll hear cars barreling down Caton Avenue, sirens, the occasional car alarm, semi trucks rattling down the street – the sounds of Brooklyn.
The lamp in the living room will be on, so I can have some light to knit.
Alan will still be away on his UK tour, so it’ll be just me and my knitting on the couch.
I’ll watch something on TV, those Netflix movies that have been sitting on top of the coffee table for two weeks now.
I’ll be wearing one of Alan’s t-shirts. Maybe his jogging pants. Probably both.

Then, it dawned on me.
That’s exactly what I want to do for my birthday this year.
Just be alone.
Me, my thoughts, and a glass of red.
Because, for these past few weeks, I haven’t had silence.
I haven’t really been able to think.
I haven’t been alone.
It’s a blessing and curse.
None of this feels real to me yet. Everyday, I sit in the living room at Papi’s house, and it’s like nothing has happened.
We’re all still here, and he’s just upstairs, napping.

Only, he’s not.
We carried the little box that held his ashes to the church.
We found out that it was closed and wouldn’t open until Monday morning.
So, we carried him back home and put him on the table by the wall, lit a candle, and spent the weekend eating our meals with his box of ashes in the room with us.
We ate his favorite foods, because that’s what was in the fridge.
We lit a candle. We recited novenas. We attended masses for him.
I went to church and tried to not feel guilty when everyone else believes so much. I stood there and admired the statues and tried to not scratch the mosquito bites on my ankles.
His ashes sit in a cubbyhole in a church near the city’s center, sealed with an engraved marble plaque that has enough space for Mami’s name.
Mami has been telling us what she wants, so we don’t have to make any decisions.
I now know that Mami is mortal, too.

All these things need silence in order to be processed.
I need to remember to pick up a bottle of red when I get home.

I.
It’s only my second time wearing this dress.
The first time, Monkey was a cluster of cells sitting in my uterus, unbeknown to anyone else. I went to the mall looking for a simple, black dress. Not fitted. Not low-cut. I found this dress on the sales rack. It’s one size too big, but it’s just right for a funeral.
I pull the dress out of my suitcase, shake it out, and drape it across the foot of the bed.
My shoes are black flats. Angie had given them to me only two weeks earlier. I’m thankful that I’ll be wearing something that doesn’t already have dark memories attached to it. I remember the cherry blossoms, our girls laughing, watching a horrible vampire movie and joking about it. These are the memories that will carry my feet.
I dress slowly. Thoughtfully. I tie my hair back because it’s too humid to wear down. I put on some foundation, a bit of blush, skip the mascara.
I step out of the bedroom and see my older brother. Steve is wearing black pants, a white shirt, a tie, black dress shoes. These clothes are completely inappropriate for this climate.
We’re already sweating.

II.
“They’ll be carrying him out in about ten minutes,” my aunt tells us.
We’ve stepped outside to escape the musky smell of flowers, the stale air in the room, and the mosquitoes that kept feasting on my legs. I should have worn pants. We’ve spent the morning here, saying our last goodbyes. Relatives who claim to have known us when we were toddlers come up to us and offer hugs, condolences, and leave me smelling like powdery perfume and cheap cologne.
I look at Steve.
“We should go inside.”
“Yeah.”

III.
The man shows up with a gurney. It’s pressed together, like an accordion, and he pushes a lever to stretch it out. I expect it to squeak and screech. It doesn’t. It glides open effortlessly, gracefully. He places the accordion gurney against Papi’s coffin and asks if the family will help him.
I look at my brother, and he nods. He walks over and, along with a few other men, grabs a handle and hoists my daddy.

IV.
Outside, we wait for the hearse to make its way past us. We wait, and stare, and curse the street light that changes from green too quickly. Finally, he’s past us, so we walk. Following the blinking hazard lights of the hearse, I stare at my feet. Pointy left toe, pointy right toe, pointy left.
My Mami and brother walk in front of me. If I allow myself, I start to see my Papi’s feet walking alongside Mami’s. Steve’s gait is so much like Papi’s.
The hearse drives a little too quickly.
Right pointy toe, left pointy toe, right pointy, left pointy, right, left, right, left.
The gravel on the road crunches. The Dora the Explorer band-aid on my heel comes loose and starts to work it’s way down into my shoe.
We turn into the crematorium.

V.
There are three seats in front of the altar. One for each of us. My brother and I sit on either side of my mother.
There should be an extra seat, but we’re missing a brother.
If he came, like he should have, in what order would we sit?
The priest begins.
Under his robe I notice he’s wearing jeans and Teva sandals.
Sweat trickles down the small of my back.
My hair sticks to the back of my neck and sides of my face.
Mosquitoes feast on my shins and knees.
My lip quivers.
Mami’s hand feels thin and sharp in my hand.
The coffin is on my left, the feet facing a trap door in the wall with an engraved cross.
This is where we say good-bye.

VI.
On the path to coming to terms with your atheist beliefs, you have to learn to accept a few things:
- people need a reason for why things happen.
- rituals help people move along, tell them when to weep, when to embrace one another, when to wish one another peace.
- Mass is still comforting.
- This is all total bullshit.

VII.
Keep it together.
Don’t make a show.
Everyone is staring at the three of you.
They will talk.
They will say, “Pobre Charito, she cried the whole time. The tears just flowed from her eyes.”
They will be right.
The tears run down my face, across my chin, and into my cleavage.
My tissue is crumbly and stops sopping up the tears.
It leaves white bits on my chest.

VIII.
“Let’s wish our neighbors peace.”
They all turn and start to hug one another. I hug Mami, Mami hugs Steve, Steve hugs Mamita, Mamita hugs Tia Marina…
I watch.
I’m dangling from a thread.
My cousin comes up to me and I look into her eyes.
We have the same big, brown eyes. The same mouth. The same hair.
The same blood.
She hugs me, and I bury my face into her neck and sob.
Deep, body-shaking sobs and I feel small and tired and weak and
I miss my daddy.
“Cry, mama, let it all out.”

IX.
Again, they ask for help.
Who will carry him off the gurney and onto the belt where he will be rolled through the trap door?
The trap door where they will take him to the ovens.
Who will do that?

X.
My face is in Steve’s chest, pressed against Mami’s head.
I sob.
I worry that my foundation might rub off on his white shirt.
I’m grateful that my parents gave me an older brother.
I’m grateful that he’s strong enough to hold us both.
I’m grateful that this is the worst part, that this will get better from here.
Fuck all that gratefulness. I want to have him back.