Precious Memories November 2011
I have come to consider Andalusia as home though I have never lived
there. It was unchanging. We moved, I moved out, my parents even moved
away. But Andalusia was where my Granny and Papa had always been. In the
house my Papa built when they were first married. The house my father
grew up in. The place where my brother and I would spend a week or two
during the summers. The place of reunions, Christmas, Thanksgiving,
Easter. But all this is changing.
My precious Granny, who is always there, is not. I have known before
those who have passed away and it was sad to see them go. But this
hurts. My heart literally aches.
I try, almost frantically, to recall memories in as much detail as
possible only to find everything in bits and pieces. Yellow mechanical
pencils, milkshakes, peas, hand soap. Everything reminds me of her. My
last birthday card from her still hangs on the fridge. There won't be
anymore. She always remembered my birthday. For 30 years.
Some memories are too fresh. The light blue casket with praying hands on
the edges. My daughter in my arms as I try not to sob. The sight of my
husband and brother behind the casket, pallbearers. Tears falling from
my father's eyes. From my brother's eyes. My cousin giving the eulogy
speaking of her just as I have always known her. Speaking what I am
feeling inside.
How different eulogies are when you know the one being eulogized.
