November 1st, 2016

Dear Grandma and Abuelita,

I’m not religious. I don’t believe in heaven and I don’t believe in hell. I believe that when we die, we just die. I do believe in spirits lingering though and I picture them to be in the sky. Not because that’s where heaven is supposed to be, but because the sky is beautiful and infinite. Who wouldn’t want to reside there? So I don’t believe in a lot of that stuff, but the thought of you two watching over me is comforting, so I’ll follow through with that notion.

The both of you exited my life at a very young age. So young that I don’t remember much of either of you. And that makes me really sad that I didn’t get enough time with you, because now as a young adult, I see how much your absences affect our family.

Grandma, I see the pain in Papa’s eyes every time I visit him: he’s all alone in that house and sure, he fills up his time with movies and friends and church, but there’s a void in him that’s never going to be filled. And as for my mom and my aunt, I think they’re incredibly strong. I can’t imagine going through life without a mom, and I know there is an empty space within them too. One of the most potent memories that I have from my childhood is seeing my mom drop down to her knees when the nurse came into the waiting room of the hospital to tell her that you had passed. My mom may seem like she’s very busy and frantically running around and seems like her head’s screwed on tight, but I know there are days when the pain is a little stronger. You took pieces of them that they’ll never get back.

Abuelita, I remember you the least, probably because I was four and was overwhelmed with the amount of family members that I have, but that doesn’t mean that your passing had any less of an effect. I hear all these stories about you and what it was like growing up in Mexico, and I am just amazed by how strong of a woman you were. You raised seven fantastic kids, who I am more than lucky to call my tíos, and the great man that is my father. My dad doesn’t really cry at all. The only times I’ve seen him cry was when he dropped me off at college for the first time and whenever we visit you at the cemetery. Sometimes I try and get stories out of him and I can tell he doesn’t like talking much about you, because you took pieces of him as well.

Both of my parents were alarmed, because I didn’t cry at either of your funerals. Could there be something mentally wrong with me? Sure. But I think I didn’t cry because deep down, I felt like both of you would come back. That all this pain everyone was feeling, was temporary. But as I grew up and processed the reality of what happened, I realized something: the pain wasn’t temporary, and even though I was very young and had little memory, you took pieces of me too.

This is selfish of me, but I wish you were here (even though you were in pain). I wish I could eat the freshly made food you would make when I would visit. I wish I could hear the crazy stories of your youth and advice to help me navigate my way through life. I wish I could feel your arms around me. I wish I could have someone to teach the ways of technology to. I wish I could run and talk to you when my parents are being annoying, but I guess I’ll have to settle for patches of dry grass and a stone with your name carved into it. I should be grateful that I at least got to spend some time with you. Some of my cousins were born after you passed, and they have no memories with you at all. The faded memories that I do have, I hold on to. And I may not remember much, but I do know that the both of you had so much room in your heart for love. This trait is one I aspire to obtain.

So today, on día de los muertos, I want you to know this: I will light a candle and bring out my sugar skulls in hopes that you visit. You may not physically be here with me, but spiritually will do. I hope that you continue to inspire me to be the best version of myself that I can, and I certainly hope that I’m making the both of you proud. I hope that all the suffering and pain that you endured in your final moments have evaporated. I hope that you are constructing a masterpiece with all the little pieces that you took from us. I may not be religious or believe in heaven, but wherever you are, I hope you are happy.

Con tanto amor and admiration,