30. nine months

Marina Cisternas, my Mamapapa, in the 1940s

I lost my grandmother in early February of this year, the day before her 94th birthday. Despite her age, her rapid decline was a shock. The last time I talked to her she was already in the hospital. Through a crackling phone connection she told me in a warbling voice needed surgery. She asked me to pray for her. The surgery didn’t go well. Two days later she was unconscious and another two days after that she was gone. 

Last night I had a dream. In the dream, my grandmother had already passed and my whole family was gathered in her old house in Texas, working to clear it out. I was standing in her kitchen cleaning, sun streaming onto the lemon-pattered wallpaper and sticky linoleum floors. Suddenly, there was my grandmother, an apparition from beyond. She looked beautiful, with clear, vibrant skin and glossy hair rolled into a loose bun. Her volatile temper, I could feel, was no more. She stood tall with limber joints, and when I said, “Mamapapa?” she came over to grip my hand. Her grasp was warm and strong, her knuckles no longer gnarled. She looked me in the eyes, said my name and gave me a hug. I could smell her perfume, the same one she always wore. The rest of my family had since gathered around in awe, and she went to each of them and hugged them too. Then she was gone. I still miss her.

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Nov. 17