“oh, holy, holy. it’s a blessing when they come,” abuela nods at the thrush perched on a branch beyond the fire escape.
she is full of life and joy, finding wonder in everyday moments. she loves cooking, gardening, and attending church, and cherishes her part-time job as a Spanish tutor. she stays active through walking and occasional painting, and remains healthy, vibrant, and youthful as a grandmother.
abuela also loves imagining the day she will die.
she says things to me like, “one day, in the living room where I am dying—I mean it could happen there—I will hear your slight voice for the very last time and then go. that will be beautiful.”
or, “come to my funeral dressed as you would for an autumn walk in Prospect Park.” and “don’t be late—not without good cause anyway.”
“abuelita, why do you always talk about these things?” I ask. “me entristece. it grieves me.” she smiles gently and says, “one can be committed to both living and dying.”
though her answer is wise, it still leaves me worried. “mi cielo, siempre estaré aquí para ti. my heaven, I will always be here for you. no one is lonely in heaven. when my time comes, I’ll be surrounded by many I know.”
abuela, ever the planner, keeps a pack of yellow post-it notes in her room. on each, she’s written the name of an item—a chair, a dress, a teapot, a necklace—and the person she wants to have it someday.
she tells me that if I ever have a house with a garden, I should tend it. when I mix soil and seed, she wants me to remember her as the flowers bloom in spring—and also when they fade. she says I must remember her in my songs, live well, and never stop.
all her words remind me that our moment here is small. one day, I too will be her age, knowing and loving more of the dead than the living.
the thought of her not being here makes me sad, but I find comfort knowing that a part of my grandmother will always remain in my heart—her presence echoing like the melodies of thrushes.
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