The Golden Promise

My Abuela died when I was seven years old. Too young to learn about the futility of life. Barely old enough to comprehend the concept of someone leaving you and never coming back. The realization did not sink in for another three years during 5th-grade Health class. My classmates and teacher were talking about the human body and how quickly it can shut down. The subject was a seventy-three-year-old woman who had an infection from a cut untreated for too long. Within days, she had gone septic, a rapid progression disease that attacks your organs directly. I immediately thought of her while watching the presentation. Abuela was seventy-three, had an old nail stuck in her foot for two years that went untreated, and suffered from an infection that took her life. Tears would not stop flowing.

I emotionally went back to the hospital.

I remember it clearly. The hospital was cold, had bright incandescent lights, the smell of disinfectant in the air, and the room where it all happened.

Abuela was thin, sickly, and hooked up to machines receiving various medications for comfort while wearing a white hospital gown. She was napping during my last visit with her. I was lying on my back on the couch with my favorite sketch pad and lead pencil in hand. With not much else to do, I decided to draw her room. I was not talented per se, but drawing was a source of relaxation and entertainment for me. For an hour, I meticulously sketched every inch of Abuela’s bland, institutional suite. On her bedside table, something caught my eye: a vase filled with beautiful bright orange flowers.

I recognized these flowers. At several points in time, at Abuela's house. They were primarily gifts from my parents or as decorations for Day of the Dead. I did not know why they were so crucial to her, but I did know they were enjoyable to draw.

“Hola, Nieta.” whispered a soft, elderly voice.

I looked over to see my Abuela finally awoken from her nap.

“Hola, Abuela,” I whispered happily to her. “How are you?”

She coughed aggressively.

“I am okay for now but tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What about you?”

I shrugged.

“Just bored,” I said, full of joy, picking up my sketch pad. “I drew something!”

I showed off the drawing to her.

She smiled weakly. Tears crept into her eyes.

“It is beautiful, Mija,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I love it.”

“Really!?” I squealed. “Even the flowers?”

“Si,” she replied, stroking my hair with her fragile palm. “Even the flowers.”

“Abuela, why do you like those flowers?”

She smiled.

“Do you know what they are?” she asked me softly.

I shook my head.

“These flowers,” she began, “They are called marigolds. To our people, they are precious. Used for remembering people we have lost, people we love dearly. “

I nodded.

“Like on Day of the Dead, right?” I replied.

“Si, like Dia De Muertos. But, they also mean beauty, warmth, and cheering someone on in a job or love. That is why I like them so much because something sad can be positive too.” Abuela explained. There was sadness in her eyes as she spoke to me; something I overlooked.

She hugged me tightly against her chest.

“I want you to promise me something,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Can you do that?”

I nodded.

“I want you to promise me that you will not forget how much I love you, ” she said, kissing the top of my head. “Can you do that?”

I look up at her.

“That is easy!” I laughed. “I will not forget you, Abuela.”

She hugged me even tighter while stroking my hair gently.

“Good girl,” she replied

She began coughing loudly again.

“Mija, can you get me some water,” she asked, holding out a plastic cup with a straw in it “please?”

I jumped up excitedly.

“Yes, Abuela,” I said, grabbing the cup from her. “I will be right back.”

I ran into the hallway, where the drink station was, filled her cup with ice and water, and made my way back to her room. When I got back, she was sleeping. She was probably tired, so I sat down in the chair next to her and waited patiently.

Several hours later, a doctor and two nurses came in to check on her. She was not responsive. They checked her pulse, nothing. In addition, She was cold and stiff. I had never seen anything like it before.

“When will Abuela wake up?” I whispered as not to wake her up accidentally.

The nurses froze in place; lips sealed shut. The doctor spoke up.

“She may not,” he explained patiently. “But your parents would know better than I.”

The doctor called Mama and papa to the room. They wept uncontrollably for several minutes, then pulled me into a group hug. Even though I was not sad, I cried with them. We stayed like that for a long time before two lady nurses came back into the room.

“We are here for Mrs. Rosanna Mendez,” one of them explained. “Are you the family?” She gestured to us.

We nodded.

Diligently they bathed my Abuela, brushed her long grey hair, and redressed her in a gown. She looked comfortable.

They covered up her head with the blankets and started moving the bed out of the room.

“Where are you taking her?” I asked cautiously.

They did not respond to my question, instead continued their task.

“Where are you taking my Abuela!?” I shrieked, trying to grab onto her bed.

Once they left the room, I sprinted after them.

“Give her back! Give her back!!” I cried, tears and droplets of mucus running down my face.

I tripped and face-planted onto the floor.

I broke my nose; there was blood everywhere.

I resisted treatment while crying out for her until my throat went hoarse. Eventually, I passed out in my mother's arms.

She was gone forever.

That was seventeen years ago. Now, I am twenty-four, a college graduate with a Bachelor’s degree in education, just like Abuela. I am a beautiful Latina woman with a fiancee, good friends, and a bright future. After the ceremony, I decide to visit her grave in Hillside Cemetery, with a gift, of course.

A bouquet of marigolds.

I delicately place them on her headstone. They look lovely on the cold grey stone slab.

“Hi, Abuela,” I say, smiling. “It is I, Maria. Come to see you.”

I sit down on the ground.

“I know it has been a while; I apologize.” I hang my head in shame. I know that it is essential to visit our loved ones resting place, but the last year has been very demanding for my education. In my heart, I know she forgives me.

“I graduated today,” I say, showing off my gown and cap. “You would be proud of me, becoming a teacher like you were.”

I stroke the flowers.

“I never forgot how much you loved these.“ I whisper, “Nor have I ever forgotten how much you loved me. “

My emotions well up inside me again, making tears streak down my face.

“I love you, Abuela.” I cry meekly, holding my graduation cap tightly.

“I will never forget you.”

And I never did.

Not her or our golden promise.

This story is based off of my personal life. My grandmother passed away when I was seven years old and it took years to cope with her absence.