Category: Memories (Page 5 of 11)

De nuevo tu foto. Frente a mi monitor. Te veo ahí, sonriente, joven (tendrás setenta y pico), con tu saco rojo que le hace juego a tus labios, siempre pintados. Tus ojos color acua, ni verde ni celestes, preciosos.
Me estoy por ir a la casa de una amiga, a visitar y tomar el té (sabés? todos los meses me reúno con un grupo de amigas a tomar el té – te lo conté alguna vez?). Te veo de reojo y me parece que venís conmigo, que te estás arreglando para irnos. Vos sabías, Gladys, que yo te seguiría llevando a todas partes después de tu muerte?
Creo que nunca me creí que te ibas a morir. Veo tu foto y estás ahí y no lo comprendo. Me dan ganas de llamarte, ir a visitarte, decirte cuanto te quiero.
Son dos años y medio; estabas tan viejita, pero yo estaba segura, segura, que ibas a llegar a los 90, que íbamos a ir a celebrar tu cumpleaños.
Hoy lloré por la muerte de Mercedes Sosa (no creo que te gustara, vos no eras folclorista) y Camila me preguntó si estaba llorando por vos. Siempre, no?
Todavía no puedo recordar sin llanto, quizás algún día.
Bueno, me voy a tomar el té, te mando un beso.

Here are some old pictures of our family, when I was a little girl.

We are celebrating something at Granny and Gladys’ house during the visit of Granny’s sister Grace to Argentina. Granny died soon after.

Sitting around the card table where Granny and Gladys (and I!) ate and played cards daily.

This is my dad, with Gladys, Granny and my uncle Kent.

A couple of days ago I went searching for photos of Gladys. I only found a couple, I’m hoping I have more somewhere else, but this seems to suffice for now.
I’ve put the picture, of Gladys sitting with my mom, my sister and I at our Christmas table in 2000, the last time she came to the US (she was already 82 years old). We had just bought the house, so we celebrated Christmas here.
It’s terribly sad but I have practically no memories of her visit – and really, of any of her visits here. At first I thought I was just blocking them, but it’s been two years since her death and I still can’t find them. I know she stayed at our house with Kathy for a few more days after my parents left – and I know she really loved our cats, but that’s about it.
But since I put the picture below my computer monitor, where I see her, at least indirectly every so often, I have the feeling that she’s here. I don’t mean her spirit, but that she’s actually visiting. That I will see her around a corner, that I’m going to ask her what she wants for dinner (a memory! I made ropa vieja when she came), that we are going to sit on the couch and watch the kids play. Now tears.
When Gladys died I spent days crying. Everyone – aunts, uncles, cousins – kept trying to console me, make me feel better. But all I wanted to do was cry, mourn her, experience my pain. I don’t cry that often now, perhaps every two or three days and not for very long – but I do mourn her.
And yet, that picture and the somewhat ephimerous feeling that she’s here.

If I wrote about Gladys every time I thought of her, every time I could not contain the tears from filling my eyes and wetting my face, every time I felt the emptiness of my heart and the bittersweet images of old memories, then I probably would do very little besides writing. I am sad in so many levels, for so many things – from not talking to her more often when she was still alive to the selfishness of not being loved as I once was, unconditionally, infinitely, openly. I think few people in the world are lucky to be loved as I was. Whatever confidence I have today, whatever affirmation of self-worth, probably found its seed in that great love that warmed until so recently. And really, it still warms me every time I think of it.
Gladys died soon after her 89th birthday, a week after the doctor had told her she was in perfect health. I remember talking to her that last time. As often in her later years, she was afraid of death. Depressed because she could barely see (badly operated cataracts) and walking was painful. She was also bored and lonely. She could no longer go to play cards – her favorite activity during her retirement years – and her friends (mostly of her age) didn’t visit her often. And yet, Gladys loved life, she held on to it with all her strength. I don’t think she was as much afraid of death, as mourning for the life she’d lose.
It’s been a few days since I started this post, which I had to interrupt for one reason or another, and once again I’m thinking about Gladys and needing to write about her.
I always remember her the same way. Standing in front of the hallway in her apartment, her curly blond hair, a bit flat, I don’t know why. She’s wearing a white blouse and a thin red cardigan which matches her painted lips. She has dark pants. I can’t see her shoes, I don’t remember her shoes, but I think she may be on slippers. She is smiling, I can’t remember her face not smiling. Well, that’s not true, I can imagine her not smiling, but my memory of her is that one – standing with the red cardigan, a twinkle in her aqua-colored eyes and a smile.
I wish I had a picture, but the image is so clear on my mind.
It’s so difficult to remember sometimes that she’s gone, that she’s no longer part of my life, that I’m not fourteen anymore and we’ll never lie down on her bed again, watching late night TV. For so many years I didn’t think about that year and a half I spent living with her, and now it so often comes to my mind. With tears, and warmth.
I miss her.
I will write more about her, she occupies my thoughts so much. And I want her to exist, in memories if nothing else. I was talking to Lola a few days ago, and she noted how, in abandoning Christianity, I took on some elements of Ancient Egyptian religion. The concept that if you speak someone’s name, they continue to live. So I speak her name. Gladys. I love you.