I’m trying on clothes for my Abuela’s funeral. I never imagined this day coming. Though she died at 92 I was always too afraid to think about it. Now I’m trying on clothes from my closet, asking myself “fWhat would she like to see me in“? I avoid black. She hated black and what it symbolizes. Abuela wouldn’t want us to be sad no te pongas trieste chica. Ya estoy con Dios .
But I am sad.
I’ll probably get cold at the funeral. I shiver when I cry. I settle on a long sleeve blouse- with a black bowed ribbon around my color. A symbol of the sadness I carry.
My Abuela loved lace. Every time I saw her she’d compliment my wedding gown. Pero oye, que bonita la falda.
As I remember, I mouth the words to myself. Hearing the Spanish sends a pang through my heart. Who will teach me Spanish now?
Funerals usually have flowers. She loved flowers. On walks she’d be enamored by the tiniest flower popping off some high desert week. Give me the flowers when I’m alive- don’t waste them on the grave.
I wear a cream lace top- decorated in rose flowers. I add a dark grey skirt to match.
I bend down, roll my pantyhose on. The silk stockings are spotted with water, I feel my wet checks. When did I start crying?
I put on pearl earrings.
Giving myself a once over in the mirror, I see myself as I never wanted: Dressed for my grandma’s funeral.
Will she see us from beyond? Can she see me now? The moment is too hard. It’s too real.
Take it away.
I place on my heals with care- knowing its the last thing I will ever do for her.