Before
We called her "Mom" because our mother called her "Mom." That's all we ever knew her by, my siblings and I. But her name was Pauline Ortiz, and she was the greatest person I've ever known.
In fact, everyone seemingly knew her. Or knew of her. She was just that kind of person, you know? The matriarch of that little neighborhood in the Westside of San Antonio, she was always talking to every passerby. Because Mom was full of stories—a deep well of history and wisdom. I think I get some of that from her. People knew, whether walking or driving through her street, that she would be on the porch, a tattered word search book in hand, ready to regale with a life update or story—even if you'd heard some form of that story before. She could go on for hours, carrying an afternoon of conversation, when you thought you were just making a quick stop to the corner store for eggs. Even in public—because she often tagged along with my family for errands and meals—when you'd hope she wouldn't bother every person that came into our perimeter, she inevitably did. But then we were reminded that it wasn't a bother to them, it was a privilege; those people always ended up adoring her. Like we all did.
See, that was another thing about Mom: she was the most generous of all people. So extremely selfless. She didn't have much, but what she did have, she shared. With anyone and everyone. That classic children's book, The Giving Tree, I think was inspired by Mom. Everyone knew that she could be counted on when you needed to borrow a rake and shovel or craved a cold Coke to help provide a reprieve from the Texas heat. She was especially there for me and my family throughout our various seasons of life. Mom was a reliable constant, a safe space when we needed one. She gave of her home, her days and nights. Through all of that space and time shared together, we wholeheartedly loved and appreciated her. She was our great grandmother, but, really, was a second parent, raising us alongside my mother. She was my everything.
Then, last summer, she was gone.
After
I'm driving back from the funeral and reception in my little black Prius. It's the very car that Mom sat besides me in countless times: when we'd make a visit to the doctor, or see other family, or go vote. It's a longer drive to my new apartment across the city, almost 30 minutes apart. For most of my life I lived within walking distance from Mom, if not living under the same roof with her. The change strikes me as notable for some reason, the difference from then to now, but I can't seem to process why. I can barely stick to a single thought before the ache strikes again, overtaking my mind.
We just buried Mom with her late husband, Antonio, who I called "Buelo," at the cemetery a little over a mile from what was their home, where they raised so many of us. Buelo's death happened when I was six, before anything was real and life was tangible. At 29 years-old, it's the only familial death I've experienced before Mom, prior to my being a sentient person, and for that I know I should feel somewhat grateful. Because I know life is littered with loss. Even so, I can't seem to feel anything but hurt right now, that deep wrenching from within.
On the road, I'm a wreck. My cheeks haven't been dry all day, and I don't think they will be anytime soon. I pat at them with the back of my hand, wiping the tears on my white collared shirt, which is part of the matching outfit that my fellow pallbearers and I wore. I was one of the people carrying the casket in the morning, amidst our mourning, alongside my little brother, some cousins, and uncles. It was an honor to be chosen to do so, but the entire time my mind wandered: montages of Mom, every moment shared together. The laughs playing through my mind felt off amongst the backdrop of everyone sobbing their sorrows. Memories and the present, a stark difference between.
I can't take the silence in the car anymore. I need more than the monotonous hum of the road beneath me and the wind passing me by. The first thing I think of is to turn towards a story, which is how I tend to process the world around me. Something familiar, with grief at its core, to help carry me through. Immediately, my friend Jonathan Foster's book, indigo: the color of grief, jumps as the obvious answer in my mind. I go to Spotify and hit play on the audiobook.
As the opening credits play, I'm reminded of my first experience with Jonathan's book. How, while working with him, as he was part of the publishing team and editor of my friend Darrell's book, we were asked to check out his book as part of the process. To see the physical end-product from a consumer's point of view. Eager to discover more writing and ever the avid reader, I was more than happy to. Darrell, who has an entire family, helps pastor the church in various ways, and facilitates a number of courses throughout the year, on top of being in the middle of the publication process for his second book, was more than willing to let me be the one to read Jonathan's book and write a review. Darrell ordered a copy of indigo, and when it showed up, he handed it to me.
That night, I tore through indigo, a book of poetry exploring the heartbreak and complexity of grief through Jonathan's experiences. I was astonished. His raw book was unlike anything I'd ever read before. Each stanza was woven with utter truth. The next day, at work, I gave the book back to Darrell and told him he absolutely had to read it, that he would not be disappointed. Later that week, Darrell told me that he, too, read it in one sitting then immediately handed the book to his wife, Stacy. Darrell then ordered a box of copies to give to anyone he encountered who was in a season of grief. Indigo is seriously that impactful.
Back in the car, the book begins. Jonathan's familiar voice shares the start of his profound poetry, and I listen. I continue to cry, but, eventually, a subtle comfort begins to grow. Because I'm reminded with each word that I'm not alone through this time of grief. And, more importantly, Mom isn't really gone.
Her love surrounds me. I can carry her with me by being a storyteller like her. By being a torchbearer, and loving and caring for others as she did. I can look at the seemingly empty space of grief within and remember that the feeling is so all-consuming because it's a reflection of all that she was. All that she is. Of everything she poured into the world, into those she encountered. I can be a connecting force for my family like she was, always bringing people together as a community-builder. I'll be a mirrorball of her full, wondrous life.
I finish the short audiobook on the ride home, even making a stop at Half Price Books to get one of my next stories to connect to: Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. And I know, because of these stories from others who share their vulnerabilities and grief with us, that I will be okay.
