I spent most of Saturday at home. My thoughts, my breath, my being were slower than usual. I listened to the Republica Dominicana and Ladies of Latin America compilation cds while I worked on the frame for her picture. I've decided the picture needs a new location since Dannyboy knocks it down off of my desk lamp with his big hind feet when he's trying to find a comfy sleeping position. My poor abuela gets no respect.
On February 4, 2005, my grandmother Queta died. It's strange to think she's been buried in the earth for a whole year. She was 97 when she went. But with an advanced stage of Alzheimer's Disease, I think the abuela I knew growing up has been gone for years. Her frail frame became a jaula for the claustrophobic spirit of the matriarch in the royal blue bata.
Everyday afterschool she fed me a meal of grilled cheese sandwich, Tang, and a tale about her parents or children (my tias and tios) in Santo Domingo decades and decades ago.
The things she must have seen and lived through in those 97 years... She was born in 1908! Her life experiences and memories were the kind of stuff Hollywood and PBS filmmakers use in making nostalgia pictures and historical documentaries. Cut to a Spielberg movie (or Gregory Nava, if it's an ethnic pic) of Abuela Queta's life with J.Lo or Eva Longoria opposite Russell Crow or Javier Bardem in sweaty, tropical Santo Domingo and the Bronx (in the summertime) throughout the twentieth century.
After eating dinner, I went over to Rose's and hung out with Rose, her mom, Shaun, Rachel and others. We shared baby names and laughed at sketch comedy shows.
No comments:
Post a Comment