On Life

I am 28 and I’ve never been so unhappy with my life.

This realization shakes me up at night out of a nightmare, into a a troubled life.

I think about my life, and I feel this deep sense of sadness.

Irrevocable, indisputable, sadness.

My mother used to wonder why the maids called it “recordar” instead of “waking up”.

“Oh, they’re awake,” she’d passively correct them as they came into the room to let her know that one of us had finally come out of the land of dreams.

“Si, señora, they’ve remembered,” they’d innocently insist.

She’d later understand after her mother, my grandma, passed away in her sleep. The pain was so intense that falling asleep sedated her – it gave her rest. But once her eyes opened, she’d immediately remember the ache and prickling sadness.

“I remember every time I wake,” She would determine in bitter despair, “I remember then and now, and I acknowledge that there won’t be a future with her and there’s a twinge that will only yield to sleep.”

I’m 28 and I’m so tired of remembering every day of my life.

There are, however, things I rather enjoy remembering. Like my grandma.

Her name was Esperanza. Or I guess it is since she continuous. She is.

She likes the green of the grass, and the brightness of the moon, and the breeze running through the trees. She would wake us in the crack of dawn so we could admire the sun breaking through the sky – caressing the blue canvas and bringing yellow in the dewy and freshly cut grass.

She loved nature because it grounded her.

After her death the women in my family went to her room to clean it up; on her nightstand there was a quote that read:

“I love life and life loves me. “

This struck me as bizarre since she was always challenging life one way or another. Forever perusing in different material – books, magazines, various ideologies – arduously trying to figure out the meaning of life.

In her closet, lying under piles of once fashionable and colorful clothes, was a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper. My grandma always hung everything out in the open; even her jewelry was neatly organized in a funny-looking “hanger bag” which is why this specific item struck me as odd and out-of-character.

I quickly covered the package with the clothes that hung loose in the closet and tried to distract my mother and sisters. As their eyes and minds were fogged with sadness and tears, it was easy for me to place the package under a sweater and put it under my shaky arm.

I wanted this treasure to be my own. Maybe because I already felt left out, since I couldn’t say goodbye to my grandma, unlike them, who had spent a good two hours cuddling her, gently stroking her sagacious face – memorizing her features and taking it all in. I had spent that time traveling from Texas to Mexico. That anger made me feel entitled to that box.

Is this how conquerors felt?

I lied on the floor for days following the funeral. The unopened brown box next to me – a promise waiting to be unwrapped, or perhaps a threat? I was too scared to open it, not knowing what it could hold inside. I, too frightened to fall further into depression, decided to remain on the floor. The floor has always been safe territory – who falls off the floor after all? A toddler, that’s who, and I stopped being a toddler 25 years ago.

I reluctantly grabbed the box and held it in my hands, delicately caressing it as if it were a baby, fully aware that I was holding a piece of my grandmother in my hands.

“Abuelita,” I whispered. I immediately jumped, startled by the sound of my own raspy voice, or maybe I was startled by the words I’ve spoken. “Abuelita,” I bravely repeated, summoning her, tasting those words once again.

I was amazed by the lightness of the object itself—how could something so sacred be so small?

I tried to savor the moment and build some tension by imagining what this box could hold.

Maybe knitwork? I always hoped she could knit a sweater for one of my children, but I wasn’t able to get pregnant before her death. Pictures? Maybe that photo of her when she decided to finally take a trip of her own and see the ocean, but halfway there she regretted it and went back to get my mother and her siblings. My mom said it was such an amazing trip, just them and her mom in the beach, listening to the waves. Maybe a book? She dearly loved reading and you could rarely catch her without a book in her hands. Maybe it was nothing. Just a big joke. Just a big nothing.

I decided to shake the box just a little to cancel this last thought out of my mind.

It produced a small, but confident, sound. There certainly was something she held precious inside.

Many people are sad when someone dies, most of them because this reminds them of their own mortality – their inescapable demise. Some others are haunted by regret – the knowledge that they wasted time they should’ve spent with their loved ones while they were still alive.

I, on the other hand, was just depressed. Just like my grandmother had been for several years. I was always trying to figure out the meaning of life, always reading, always perusing, forever trying to figure out why. I was afraid that I had gotten married too young and to the wrong person. Or he had married the wrong person rather: A sick and sad child. I was afraid that I was ruining his life. I was afraid of myself many times, of the monsters playing tennis in my head. I was afraid that I couldn’t stop remembering all this information. Most of all, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to ask my grandmother what to do anymore. Even though I knew far too well that she’d never give me a straight-forward answer.

I unwrapped the box I had been thoughtfully saving for the past days with the eagerness and desperation of an 8-year-old who is opening a present.

I laughed heartily when, inside the box, I found three big chocolate bars. My laughter turned maniacal, and tears started coming out from the exertion.

“Huh,” I finally managed to blurt out, “I guess after all. . .”

I guess, after all, this is the meaning of life.

That at the end, everything is just absurd.

Her name was Esperanza. She liked the green of the grass, and the shine of the moon, and the breeze running through the trees. She liked books and sunsets, the ocean and chocolate.

I wake up at night. I remember. And it’s okay to remember such happiness.