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By Fabiola Manriquez

________

In the last years of my mother’s life, I dedicated myself to helping keep her alive. I wanted to study engineering and aviation. Yet our Mexican–Catholic culture kept me stuck in servitude as I took care of my mother instead. By now, she existed in a miserable murkiness of despondency and corrosion from complications of diabetes. My three older brothers did not help.

She had an iron constitution and was used to being the general in command, always running the house without anyone’s consent. She controlled my apparel, whom I could speak to on the phone, where I could go, and how I spent my time if I was not at my job or at school. Every aspect of life was monitored and approved by her. She had arranged my marriage to a young man without my consent. His name was Cesar.

I had met Cesar through a mutual friend from grade school the summer before my freshman year of high school. While we secretly chatted on the phone one evening, my mother grabbed the phone, told him I was not allowed to have any boyfriends, and he could return on graduation day if he was interested. To my surprise, he showed up four years later at the graduation ceremony and we began to date soon after. It didn’t last long.

During my junior year in high school, I had discovered my mother putting birth control pills in my food, because there was a boy interested in me. Now, at eighteen, I discovered her doing it again because I was dating Cesar. I was furious. She had told me that since I was going to marry Cesar, I should get used to using preventative measures and wait on having children. I hadn’t spoken to Cesar of marriage. He had spoken to my mother only, and they took it upon themselves to make wedding arrangements without my consent. I told her I wasn’t going to marry Cesar or anyone else. And that ended it.

Cooking, laundry, maintaining the home, working part-time and attending college full-time was the rhythm of my life from 19 to 22. For an entire year, I awoke at 2 a.m. daily giving her medicine to help her make it through the rest of the night; she required fifteen pills around the clock to stay alive. I slept four hours a night with no social life, no free weekends, no holidays and no romantic connections. The exhaustion and lack of sleep affected my grades. I went on academic probation. This hurt me. I loved learning yet couldn’t tell anyone about my dilemma.

She went blind and needed dialysis on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. A side effect that diabetics suffer is thirst, but I could only give her a few ice cubes at a time because too much liquid caused her to feel like she was drowning, forcing us to rush to the E.R. for dialysis treatment. She threw frequent tantrums filled with profanity, and her screaming would echo throughout our little home.

“You don’t love me,” she would scream. “You want to kill me.”

She had to learn how to eat without sight, and many times I found myself dodging plates, cups, spoons and forks thrown my way out of frustration. That was compounded by outbursts of yelling, vulgarity, and sobbing. I was alone with her most of the time when these would occur. My father was at work, and I didn’t know who I could ask for help. When it was my turn to accompany her for dialysis treatment, it was agonizing to watch her suffer for three hours, while her skin turned pale white or charcoal black. I tried to comfort her. The treatment ignited hot flashes or caused chills.

Three times she experienced a code blue at the hospital and was resuscitated. She worsened every time she returned from the dead. I could hear her shouting my name down the ward on my visits; my heart would race, and my hands would begin to sweat, and chills ran down my back with embarrassment and fear. Every nurse in the unit sighed with relief as I approached her room, knowing the yelling would stop once she heard my voice. My father and I were by her side, exhausted, frustrated and praying that this nightmare would stop.

I hungered for life as a woman as I was turning 22 that July. I was craving a tender touch and the warmth of another. I met Belinda in my journalism class during the spring semester of that year. She was intelligent and witty and had a good body. I like smart women. I was helping Belinda paint her living room and dining room that summer. I began coming home a little later as the weeks passed. I remember coming home late one September night from a date. A knot formed in my gut and my hands began to sweat as I saw my father looking through the living room window. I heard my father telling my mother something. I felt the tension vibrate as I walked into the house.

“Que hora es para llegar a casa?” She yelled.

“I was out with a friend and we went out to eat.”

She rose to her feet, followed my voice and felt her way to where I was standing a few feet from her seat. As she felt my face, she began to beat me repeatedly, calling me a whore and saying she would throw me out of the house. She said she didn’t want any women like me living under her roof. If my father hadn’t stopped her, she would have killed me. I lost all my respect and love for her in that moment. I felt buried alive.

I called my youngest brother and asked him to pick me up and take me to his house for the night. Once we arrived, I had a good cry as he gave me a much-needed hug and told me that all would be fine in a few days. Two hours later, my mother called and said that she was very sorry and asked me to return home. I stayed at my brother’s house for a few days and moved out of my parent’s house that weekend.

I packed the few things I owned into Belinda’s car. As we drove off, my two older brothers followed us, now realizing that I was involved with a woman. As we reached Belinda’s driveway, one of them began to yell at her, threatening her life.

Living with Belinda, I left one hell and walked into another. She was a serious alcoholic, prone to jealous tantrums. She beat me and stalked me and made harassing phone calls to me at work. I sometimes had to wait until 1 or 2 in the morning at the local donut shop, knowing that by then she would be stone drunk and I could go home to sleep a couple of hours before I had to get up again. She and my mother loathed each other. I never had peace. My mother and two older brothers called day and night. My brothers threw bottles and eggs at our front door. I called the Sheriff’s Department, who threatened my family with a restraining order and arrest.

Until this point, my three brothers and I were raised equally, but the two older boys were from my mother’s first marriage. My father had raised them as his own. As the two older brothers continued their evil ways, I lost respect for them and considered them my mother’s sons and not my brothers. They had told me that I would never amount to anything since I was gay and that I was killing my mother by coming out of the closet. I was the favorite aunt and adored all of my nieces and nephews, but these two told me that I couldn’t be near their kids since I could give them AIDS. This broke my heart.

I never went back to live with my parents. But I kept helping them with the usual upkeep of the house four times a week. I did it more to help my father. On one of my visits, my mother’s desperation reached a breaking point as she kneeled in front of me while sobbing hysterically asking for my forgiveness. She kissed my feet and begged me to move back. I froze in disbelief, holding my composure and tears. I said, “No. I can’t. I have another life now, but I’ll keep coming to help you and Dad.”

Toward the end, I hated being near my mother and felt ill any time she expressed affection. She hated homosexuals. We argued. Gays deserved the AIDS virus, she said; they were sinning as God was working it out for them to repent. After those arguments, I visited the E.R. for a sedative.

She died in November 1987, as we both struggled to communicate without ever finding peace or the love of a mother and daughter. I was 23 and she was 54.

One time while donating blood to the Red Cross, I was asked what I would do if I won the lottery. I would pay for therapy for everyone in my family, I said. But I stay away from my brothers. I see them only at funerals or weddings.

_________

Fabiola Manriquez is the daughter of a farmworker and grew up in East L.A., where she still resides. She loves to teach Math and English, and hopes to complete a Master’s this year. Through the TYTT workshop, she discovered a deeper joy and beauty in storytelling. Contact her at Quantumspeed89@yahoo.com.
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By Lena Solis-Aguilera

I met Padrino in a dream before I met him in person. I dreamt about a man with a horsetail whisk, dancing and waving it around his head. He was dressed in white. I told Costello, my boyfriend, about my dream.

“That’s my padrino,” he said. His godfather.

He wasn’t just Costello’s padrino; he was his surrogate father.

After leaving the City (and Costello) in 1989, returning home to Southern California, crossing the Bay Bridge from Alameda County to San Francisco for a visit with Padrino was thrilling. I loved S.F. Our first stop was Padrino’s flat on 23rd and Guerrero, just west of Mission Street. He was a fixture in the neighborhood. Every day he sat in the window facing Guerrero Street waving at the passersby. We’d usually be lucky enough to park on Guerrero Street and from the window Padrino would get his first glimpse of Alex, his pedacito de oro, piece of gold.

In his flat, Cuban food was always cooking: black beans, white rice, yucca, fried plantain, and meat dishes like ox tail, ropa vieja, a beef stew, or lechón, roasted pork. Often intermingled in those scents was the smell of marijuana, which he smoked to alleviate the pain from arthritis.

Padrino was already elderly when I met him. He was tall, slender, and always well-dressed in white; white shirt, white sweater, white pants, white shoes and white socks. He wore copper bracelets on both wrists, “For the arthritis,” he said. His glasses sat atop his wide nose, and he spoke Spanish with an unfamiliar accent. In the beginning it was difficult for me to understand him because he cut off the final “s” sound on most words. In my limited world, I thought everyone in California spoke Spanish like a Mexican.

Padrino was everyone’s godfather. I rarely heard anybody call him by his given name, Oswaldo. He was “Padrino” to all. Padrino was a that evolved when Africans were brought to the Caribbean as slaves. His house was always full of people; all of them godchildren or godchildren-in-the-making from Petaluma, San Francisco, New York, San Diego, Miami, and Ecuador. For a long time, I just thought he had baptized a lot of children. Most of them spoke Spanish, some better than others; many only spoke English, but were still able to communicate with him.

At one time, I wondered aloud to Costello why Padrino wasn’t in a relationship and didn’t have his “own” children. He looked at me like I was an idiot –“He’s gay.” Padrino had elevated four godsons to the rank of son; Frankie, Costello, Juan and Johnny. He had godchildren in abundance, but I never knew him to have a partner; he was a celibate Santero.

I had no clue what Santería was. I was born and raised Catholic, and I recognized some of the Catholic saint names: Santa Barbara (St. Barbara), Virgen de Mercedes (Our Lady of Mercy), San Isidro (St. Isadore) and San Lázaro (St. Lazarus). I was accustomed to seeing life-like statues of the saints. Padrino had an entire room dedicated to the santos, but these were large ornate urns or soup tureens draped with beads. Each one had a particular color associated with it: blue for Yemaya, the Virgen; green for San Isidro; purple for San Lázaro. People from Florida, New York, Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay area paid him to persuade the santos to grant their wishes or to heal them. On other occasions he would read the caracoles, small cowrie shells that were tossed onto a circular woven mat and then “read” or interpreted.

Someone once told me that San Francisco was the closest thing to New York City on the West Coast. I suppose Padrino’s flat was like a New York row house. I had never been in an apartment that long. Entering from 23rd Street, the door opened and the hallway stretched from here to eternity. To the immediate left was the parlor that connected to the santo room; the sacred space. Only a few were allowed to enter. Fabrics of white satin, tulle and brocade covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. At the center was the Virgen de Mercedes, a hand-carved wooden statue of Our Lady from Cuba. Bowls of fruit were stationed in front of the urns and glasses of water were strategically placed throughout the room as offerings or to absorb the evil spirits. The hallway ended at the kitchen and off the kitchen was the laundry room where Padrino kept doves and Pancho, an African gray parrot that liked to munch on meat. To the left of the kitchen was the dining room/den where Padrino spent most of his leisure time lounging in his recliner by the window facing Guerrero Street, watching and listening to operas like Turandot or Madame Butterfly. At the back of this room, almost an afterthought, was his large bedroom.

The first time I went to the flat, Costello left me waiting in the parlor for an hour. I was ready to leave, and I could hear from the back of the house the Old Man scolding Costello that I was going to leave. Maybe that’s why I stayed with Costello – I was curious about this man. Padrino knew, without having met me, that I was going to leave. Aside from my initial dream, that was the first time I experienced his gift.

As my relationship with Costello grew, so grew my relationship with the Old Man. When I became pregnant, he was ecstatic. He would have a grandbaby to coddle and coo over. He took care of me, and I grew in his esteem. When his other godsons came to visit, I was introduced as Alex’s mom. I eventually rose in rank to daughter-in-law and, finally, daughter. After Alex was born, I returned to my job. I had tried traditional daycare, but money was tight, and I knew I could always count on Padrino and Juan, another godson/caretaker, to babysit. Padrino doted on Alex. He rocked my baby to sleep and whispered into his tiny ears. Dinner was always provided. They became my surrogate family. Even after Costello passed in 1994, Padrino and I maintained our kinship.

When times were tough, Padrino assisted me financially. I, in turn, provided him with a grandson. After Costello and I split up, I returned to Los Angeles with Alex and found work as a teacher. However, we would visit Padrino two to three times a year. When Padrino discovered that I could sew, I was entrusted to make and dress the Virgen. No expense was spared for her gown and cape. Every September 23rd we celebrated her feast day. Juan cleaned the house from top to bottom, but more importantly cleaned the santo room. We left offerings of food. The house filled with guests, godchildren, and other santeros from the East Bay. It was a party. Salsa music permeated the house, with congas, chants, and dancing in the hallway till the early morning hours. Everyone was expected to dress in white. White was important because it was like Teflon; the bad spirits could not stick to a person dressed in white. I discovered this one day when pregnant. The Old Man told Costello to ask me not to wear black. It was bad for the baby, the spirits would penetrate my womb.

Once back home in L.A., Padrino and I spoke regularly on the phone. He knew if I was anxious or stressed (usually about money). He bought us our first television. When I moved to the house on Stewart in Baldwin Park, I told him that I had carpet installed and he casually remarked, “The color green was a good choice.” I didn’t even ask how he knew. Even if I didn’t need anything, he would call and tell me he was sending money via Western Union. In return, as my finances improved, I was able to purchase things he wanted or needed. On one visit I purchased a dining room set from Montgomery Ward’s in Daly City; his was cheap and one by one the metal frame chairs had become loose or broken.

Over the next few years, he would fly in to Los Angeles, and I would take him to visit old friends from Cuba and a few Santería clients in Hollywood. We never really talked about Santería, but at one point he asked me if I wanted to be initiated and I said, “No.”

On January 10, 1997, Juan called. Padrino had died. He was found in his flat on 23rd and Guerrero. Not seeing him sitting by his window as usual, a neighbor peered in to see him lying on the floor. He had a heart attack. Someone was able to get in, but he was already dead. Juan also explained that the coroner wouldn’t release Padrino’s body to him. It had to be a blood relative. Padrino’s only living relative was his sister, Aida, who lived in Miami and was too old to travel. I called the detective. I needed proof; an I.D, a marriage certificate, something that identified me as a relative. I had nothing to show.

Alex and I flew to San Francisco. The godsons were anxiously waiting. We made it to the City about 4:00 p.m. — just enough time to make it to the Coroner’s Office. I said a little prayer before entering the building. The detective presented me with papers to sign, but never asked for any identification.

Early the next day, Juan, Johnny, Galo and Tito, the primary godsons, went to make the final arrangements at a funeral home on Valencia Street. As Tito wrote out a check for the burial, I remember the young woman behind the desk looked up at him and gaped, “You’re Tito…” He smiled and nodded. Tito Puente was one of Padrino’s godsons and paid for his funeral.

Padrino’s body was sent to the funeral home where the godsons attended to the Old Man’s body. Since I was not initiated, I was not privy to these rituals.

I knew the Old Man didn’t care about a funeral Mass, but I wanted to say a few Holy Marys for his soul and my peace of mind. The lid was closed on the casket. Inside next to Padrino lay his cherished hand-carved Virgen de Mercedes.

But in the Santería, a babalawo, a high priest who divined with the spirits, needed to be present. The santos, themselves, would “speak” to the Babalawo to determine their own fate. Padrino’s urns and soup tureens would be distributed or destroyed. We waited all night at Padrino’s flat until the babalawo arrived from Miami. As Alex and I sat in the Old Man’s recliner in the den, we were given white cloths and instructed to keep our heads covered until the ceremony was complete.

Hours later, Alex was given San Isidro. I inherited Yemaya. Several other santos found new homes. Juan was instructed to destroy the remaining few. The only thing I wanted from the Old Man’s house was a black and white photo of Padrino and Alex that hung in the dining room.

Padrino is buried in Colma, a city of cemeteries, just outside of San Francisco. I went searching for his plot a couple of years back, but got lost. The cemeteries looked the same, and we hadn’t purchased a headstone for the Old Man. I even tried looking for the funeral home on Valencia Street to get the name of the cemetery, but I couldn’t find that, either.

Padrino is lost atop one of those hills overlooking the bay, resting no one knows where.

A few of his santos remain in my possession; two in the dining room and San Isidro in the backyard. Maybe it’s time to take better care of them; maybe it’s time to call my god brothers.

____

Lena Solis-Aguilera is a Catholic Chicana middle school teacher from Whittier. Her interests include reading, writing, dancing, Karaoke and sharing her faith. She lives two blocks from where she was raised with her husband, son and two dogs, Karlitos and Sadie. Contact her at Lcsolis7@aol.com.
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By Fabiola Manriquez

She took her time walking across the room, scanning the computer lab as though preparing for battle. When she finally reached my desk, she handed me a referral from a government program she was forced to enroll in and said, in a low voice, “Hey Miss. I’m here to get help with my Math and English, so what do I do”?

I was recruited into the tutoring program by my trigonometry professor at East Los Angeles College since I often enjoyed assisting classmates. I remember Flaca sitting in front of the computer simply staring at the screen. I thought she was struggling with the operation of the computer. I learned later that she would come to class intoxicated and brought her happy juice. It was a thirty- two ounce soda mug with alcohol but because it had no aroma of alcohol I didn’t know. It was also a little strange that she preferred wearing her slick shades in class. I thought the computer screen was too bright for her. In reality, she was loaded and she hid behind them.

I had a feeling that she wanted to improve her life since she was attending this class. As she behaved, I continued to assist her and in time we became friends. We talked. I asked what her favorite drink was? With a naughty smile she looked straight into my eyes and confessed that she enjoyed her alcoholic beverage while she worked on her lessons. This situation was new to me, so I said nothing. Over the weeks, we talked a little about college studies and concerns about the weather as I tried to figure out what to do.

When I felt more comfortable with her, I finally addressed the issue of coming to class loaded and bringing her happy juice. I could have lost my job if my boss found out that she was drinking in class, but my heart told me to stay quiet. I told her that I needed her help. We would work as a team in order for her to stay in the class since it was mandated by her program. I asked her to pretend as though she was doing her work by hitting the computer keys every few minutes. I also asked her to stay awake because her snoring might disturb other students and attract attention. I suggested she refrain from bringing her favorite drink to class, which was better enjoyed outside class.

With time she stopped bringing her mug and, eventually, began to complete her lessons. But she kept her shades on.

Flaca was raised by both her parents as an only child for a decade, followed by a brother ten years younger and by a sister four years after that. Before the arrival of her siblings, she and her parents had money and time enough to take camping trips, go bowling and to the movies. Her father worked in the roofing industry and she was his assistant for a while. However, he always wanted a son and he taught her to work and play sports as if she were so.

But she reached her teenage years as her parents were occupied changing diapers, and working harder than ever. “I felt as though my brother and sister stole my father from me,” she told me.

At fifteen, she was searching for attention and began to hang out with the neighborhood gang. After school, she and her comrades would put their lunch money together and would pay a local wino to buy them a six pack, which led to a twelve pack, and eventually to cases of beer. They began breaking into newspaper vending machines. From there, she began using drugs. She even smoked Angel Dust on the lawn outside the East Los Angeles Sheriff station.

Her parents talked with her about her mischief, beat her, threw her out of the house, but gave her chances to return home. Her troubles kept growing. She would behave for a while but it didn’t last long, and her defiance would intensify.

She was expelled from Schurr High School, attended Vail Continuation High School and was expelled for fighting. She was in and out of juvenile detention and jail. Eventually, she was sent to the Mira Loma detention facility in Lancaster which gave her much needed structure. There she completed her G.E.D.

Once on the outside, she worked at the Sears Warehouse, then as a mail clerk at Wells Fargo Bank, followed by a printing shop. Then

in her mid-twenties, she began using heroin. She met Sheila at a party and grew as addicted to her as she was to the drug. They became lovers and sold heroin together. Addicts, called Sheila with their orders; Flaca made the deliveries. “It was just like delivering pizza- like a franchise, in a way,” she said. Sheila was her immediate boss, but there were other distributors above her.

Flaca and Sheila shared the upkeep of the house and expenses for about a year. Then one night, Flaca stayed out all night. Sheila and she argued. The next time Flaca stayed out all night, Sheila kicked her out. That proved lucky, as a few days later cops raided the house and arrested Sheila.

Flaca moved back with her parents. At this point, longing for children, she decided to take a break from women. Her next door neighbor, Smokey, was a longtime friend and they kind of messed around when she was younger. He was eleven years her senior, had a good heart, was handsome, masculine and was right on the other side of the fence. He had also served in the Vietnam War. The proposition was simple, she told him: I need your help to have my children. He would not have any responsibility or claim to them, but he could see them from next door. With time, he fathered her two sons. He also was in and out of jail and survived working odd jobs, then died from a bleeding ulcer soon after the birth of her second child. He was found on the lawn of what is now the East Los Angeles Library.

Meanwhile, Flaca continued making poor choices. She was stabbed twice, took part in drive-by shootings, kept drinking and using drugs, and was in and out of jail. She was respected in the gangster community since she did bad things in a big way.

Years of abuse wore her down so that she lost her eye sight for a year. Consequently she was unable to work and went on government aid known as SSI in 1991 at the age of 31. Her parents didn’t condone her behavior, but they loved her and cared for her two sons.

After a year of therapy she regained her eyesight. One morning while visiting a friend, she realized that she had not drunk or used drugs the night before. For the first time in decades she was able to think with a clear mind. Because she qualified for a free bus pass, she got on the bus after visiting with this friend to be alone and think. For a week, she left her parents’ home early and rode the bus all day. Those bus rides were a turning point.

She began to attend Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and tried to stay clean and sober. She relapsed several times, but eventually held to it.

As years passed, she learned a more structured lifestyle. She began by taking her sons to school regularly and picking them up afterwards. As time went on, she befriended the principal of the same school as he later invited her to enroll in parenting classes. Flaca learned how to kneel down and look her children in the eyes when she spoke to them. She became skilled in establishing parameters when giving her boys a choice when selecting things. She was taught the value of punctuality, whether it was to arrive at school on time regularly or returning library materials by the due date.

When her sons were toddlers, she entered them in baby contests and won several times. Later, she enrolled her boys in baseball, soccer, karate, and taught them to bowl. The year that her sons played peewee baseball was the first time in the league’s history that both the coach and the assistant coach were women. Flaca was the head coach as the team made it to the playoffs.

She learned to use the libraries, and showed her boys how to do the same. In the annual school fundraiser she sold candy for her sons and was the top seller for three consecutive years. The first year as the top seller they won tickets to Knott’s Berry Farm and the second year, tickets to Disneyland. Flaca already had experience selling things. Candy sales came easy to her and it was legal. “No one was shot. No one got killed,” she said. “It made me feel like I was a real mother.”

I remember the year she first came in for tutoring telling me about selling enough candy to win bicycles for her sons.

Two weeks before her father died, he told her to go back to school and become a rehabilitation drug counselor. She’s doing that now, working on her degree at East Los Angeles College.

It’s been 21 years since she first showed up in my class. I have watched her all that time.

I see her on campus now, an adult finally, and no longer in her sunglasses and khaki shorts that meet her tube socks at the knees. She is usually with one of her sons, who is also a student. I see them after class, walking together slowly toward the parking lot.

___

Fabiola Manriquez grew up in East L.A., where she still resides. She loves to teach Math and English, and hopes to complete a Master’s this year. Through the TYTT workshop, she discovered a deeper joy and beauty in the formation of storytelling.
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By Rachel Kimbrough

For four years, I could not remember what my son looked like alive.

If I shut my eyes and focused, I had one vague memory of him laughing–the second and last time he ever laughed, immediately before the nap from which he would never wake. But I couldn’t remember his face. My one vivid memory of him was what he looked like when I found him dead, SIDS having somehow drained the life out of him–his blue cheeks, purple lips, spiderweb-like something spreading on his tongue. Thoroughly limp, all the infantile will to remain fetal completely gone.

I have a chest of all his belongings. Clean and unwashed spit-up cloths and onesies and sleepers and pacifiers and blankets, a small wooden box, courtesy of Amos Family Funeral Home, containing clay imprints of his hands and feet and a lock of hair.

I thought, for these four years, that if I opened that chest, I would die. And I don’t mean a piece of me would die, or whatever–I mean I thought I would physically perish. There is such a thing as too much to handle.

A couple weeks ago, though, my therapist urged me to dig in anyway.

So I did.

I went in my room, shut the door, paced around for a while, occasionally glancing over my shoulder at the chest pushed up against a wall. Eventually I sat on the ground in front of it and lifted the lid.

Everything inside smelled like wood, not babies. There on top was the item he died in–a full-length sleeper, cut through from top to bottom with medical shears. The Amos box with his hair in it. Same color as mine. Further digging yielded his favorite blanket, birth confirmation, gag-gifted t-shirts like the one featuring Chewbacca with the phrase, “Change me, I smell like a Wookie!”

I found the one photo album we’d gotten around to making. The day he first smiled, when I took about a hundred pictures in half an hour, doing all sorts of ridiculous things to earn the toothless grin again. The week his eyelashes started to grow, when I took the whole week off work to watch those insanely long, luxurious lashes unfurl. Our family Christmas photo–”Kill the houselights, it’s Christmastime.” I reached in and dug a little deeper.

I felt a CD or DVD case, and couldn’t think what it may be. I pulled out the case and discovered the DVD we’d played at his funeral, Sigur Ros’ “Glosoli” playing over bits edited together. I’d thought we left that at the funeral home.

I figured, what the hell, I was already in this far. I put the DVD in my laptop and watched.

And Jesus Christ, did I lose ten pounds in tears. He was just right there, video revealing nuances in his expressions pictures can never quite convey. There he was, only four weeks old and already bopping around in a Johnny Jumper. Six days old and already holding his head up independently. Three months old and already trying to crawl. I’d forgotten he was some superbaby. There was my favorite of all his smiles, the slow-builder, when he’d catch your eye and hold it, and then slowly, so slowly, the corners of his mouth would lift until he was fully grinning. Him almost but not quite sneezing. Trying to sit up but rolling forward onto his dad’s chest instead.

I could remember all of these things. Not just what they looked like in video–I could remember being there with him, the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin. The video ended. I put it back in its case, put that back in the chest and closed the lid.

And then, I didn’t die. I felt close to him again. I sat on my bed and allowed myself to remember him, calling forth every memory I could from pregnancy to death. I couldn’t tell if it felt good or hurt, like getting blood drawn or extracting a splinter. And after a while, it occurred to me that his death isn’t a thing I’ll ever get over, like an ex-boyfriend or daily offense. It’s something I can only hope to eventually accept. But I am so lucky he lived at all, and I can still hold on to that.

I opened the chest again and removed a picture from the photo album. I pinned it on my wall.

____

Rachel Kimbrough is a writer living in Kansas. This is her third story for Tell Your True Tale. Contact her at rkimbrou@stumail.jccc.edu.

 

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