Memories of Home

Growing up, I was never a logical person; I didn't believe in facts. I was always flying with fairies in a green meadow covered with lavender or wearing an armored suit and trying to defeat a dragon that wanted to burn my whole village. But whether I was saving the world or having a blast with random creatures, my abuela, my grandma, always had for me a hot cup of ginger tea with cinnamon and two sugars. After a long day of pure joy, she knew that I needed her tea to wrap me up in a warm steam blanket. Every day, after my adventures, I would drink my tea with her. We would sit in her balcony filled with mosquitos buzzing and the air filled with the smell of ginger tea mixed with the vapor rub she would wear as perfume and the dirt that covered me from head to toe.

As I grew older, my adventures shifted from flying with fairies to grabbing books and jumping through pages nonstop. Still, one thing that never changed was the tea that embraced me every afternoon, the comforting mosquito buzz, and the smell that came with sitting with my abuela in her balcony. As a teenager, our bond shifted a bit, I was now going out with friends and preparing myself for my adult life, but she was always there. I remember the first time I realized I wanted to be a writer; I was seventeen years old. I had written my first poem, and my mom had basically screamed at me when I told her the news.

"A writer?" She said, throwing her hands in the air.

"Mom, if you could just read my poem, I know it's good. I feel like I could do this for the rest of my life," I said.

"Amelia, this is not up for discussion, you are going to be the first lawyer of the family."

"Mom, I really…"

"This is not up for discussion," She said interrupting me, as she walked towards her room and locked the door behind her.

My mom was barely present in my life, and in so many ways, my abuela filled that void that my mom had left unfilled. I lost my dad at a young age, and my mom had never remarried. It was just her and me at our house, and then I had my abuela right across the street. My abuelo passed away when I was two years old, and I was the only company my abuela had on most days. I remember wanting to lock myself up in my room when my mom had said no to my dreams, but I just crossed the street to my abuela's house. In there, my hopes were received with love. I recited my poem to her so many times that day that ten years later, I can still remember it.

"Are you buying the plane tickets?" Said my husband for the millionth time today.

"I'm tired," I said.

"Hun, you can't keep torturing yourself and everyone with this."

"Ed, I just don't want to think about this at all. Plus, I have to go to work."

"¿Mi amor?"

"¿Qué? What?"

"It's what she wanted. It's been two years. She needs to rest."

This morning my mother called and asked if I was planning any time soon to go back home. I moved out of Puerto Rico, with Ed about two years ago. Our relationship had always been special. He was my first friend, my first love, and the other person in my life that was always there to pick up all the messy parts of me and put them back together. He never felt the need to fix me or tell me I shouldn't act a certain way, he was always there at any time of the day or night to listen to me recite my next poems or hear me sing a song of my love for pizza at three in the morning. I fell in love with him so fast that a shooting star is too slow in comparison. But he has been annoying me with, "we need to go back, nena. You have to accept what happened." He also throws in the occasional, "what if you finish your book?" Honestly, it's annoying at times, but not because he is pushing me to something I don't want to do, but because I know he is right.

Since we moved, I have done a variety of jobs. And for the past few months, I've been working as a barista. I've been dealing with people whose only worry is how many vanilla pumps and shots of decaf espresso they want in their coffee. I was offered a part-time position as a professor at the University of Puerto Rico before we moved to this random state. I needed to present my doctoral thesis, and I could officially start the following semester as a Literature professor. The weeks before my thesis presentation, I practiced it so many times. My abuela was in the hospital, and whenever I would visit, she would ask me how my studies were going, and if I was finally going to be a professor. If she had had it her way, she would've practiced with me all day every day. But those days, even though she was always smiling, always my number one fan, still rooting for me, she was not the same abuela anymore. Her hair didn't have a few greys anymore, it was completely white like a winter bunny's tail. Her skin was covered in wrinkles, and her smile seemed a bit forced; she was being sedated for the pain she hid until her last breath. Her ginger tea and vapor rub had been substituted by the smell of a sterile hospital room mixed with the scent of decay.

The day she met Ed was just a couple of days before my thesis presentation, and we now think back and realize it was one of her last good days. I had been dating him for quite some time, and I knew he was the one she should actually meet. She said, "Mija, leave us alone. I want to talk to this poor soul." They were alone in her hospital room for way too long. When Ed finally came out of the room, he gave me the tightest hug he could give me. That night he proposed.

"Did you get the plane tickets?" Ed said as he walked through our front door.

"I did not."

"Nena, sweetie, you have to do this."

"Ed, it's not fair. Why is she doing this to me? I should not be put in this situation. She's gone, and that's that. Why am I being forced to relive everything?"

That night Ed held me until I fell asleep. The next day we bought the tickets to go to Puerto Rico.

We flew into Puerto Rico, from the state that we lived in, and my heart swelled up as the first part of San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico, became visible. I've missed my home, and I know Ed has too. The day that I left was the day of my thesis presentation. I was driving, with Ed in the passenger seat, towards the university, and suddenly I was heading to the airport. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do my presentation. What was the point? She wasn't here with me? All the things that she had done for me, all the pushes she had given me had faded the moment she left me. I begged Ed to let me go, and he did. A month later, he flew to me, and we got married a few days later. My mom was not happy with anything I did, she hadn't been happy with me since the day I decided that my dreams were more important than hers. But now, here she was, at arrivals, waiting for Ed and me.

"Bendición, mami," I said as I hugged my mom for the first time in almost three years.

"Nena, I thought I was never going to see you again." My mom said.

I thought it was going to be more difficult, but my mom held me in her arms for a couple of seconds, and I felt like perhaps time had been in our favor.

We drove for about two hours to get to the town that I used to live in. When we got there, seeing my old house and my abuela's home brought a rush of emotions. Ed and I grabbed our things from the car, walked into my mom's house, and just walked to the nearest bed and fell asleep until the next day.

It's been a week since we arrived, and I'm starting to feel the pressure that I ran away from in the first place. My mom has been asking so many questions about my job. There are nights that I go to bed, and when I'm between dreaming and half-conscious, I feel like my breathing sounds normal once again. I love my mom, but there's moments where she can be overbearing and steps on my toes until she makes them bleed. She keeps saying that I should give law school a shot. She's also saying, "Maybe you could even become a doctor," but I don't want any of that. I wish she would just understand that I've grown and that I can make my own decisions in life.

"Sweetie, your abuela was a dreamer, and you are just like her, but dreams don't print money." My mom said.

"Mom, can we please not do this again. There's a reason why I left."

"You didn't leave because I stopped you from your dreams. You just couldn't face reality. It happens to dreamers. That's the only thing she didn't think she should teach you."

"Ma, stop," I said.

"Nena, es que tu no entiendes. Can't you see that you are alive, and you need to live? You can't keep thinking about what's lost. Ed might give up, he has a career, and you had yours but traded it for selling coffee."

"Mom, it's not like I can just keep going with my life. She is not here! She was always here. How can I do everything when she doesn't get to see anything?" I said.

"Sweetie, she would've wanted you to follow your dreams. I know I've been hard on you all your life, but I think it's time you take a step on your own. You can't keep thinking that because she is gone, life has no meaning." Mom said.

"I know, that's why I am here, but I really don't want to read at the event."

"Nena, that's out of the question. You are reading that poem at her memorial. We can't keep canceling it because of you, we can't finally say goodbye if you are not here with all of us."

I felt like my mom's small house shrank to my size, entrapped me. I couldn't breathe, I just wanted to run away. I wanted to escape again, leave this world, not be a part of it. I wanted to get on the next plane to my random state and never look back. But I know I need to stop running, but just for tonight, I want to do it for the last time. I got up from where my mom and I are were sitting. I grabbed her car keys and ran outside the house. It was maybe two or three o'clock, and the sun was burning on my now pale skin so much that I immediately felt a trickle of sweat go down my spine. I located my mom's car and got in the driver's seat. I gripped the steering wheel hard, turned the car on, and set the AC all the way up to try to hide the Puerto Rican heat under it. I would've stayed there a lifetime, but then Ed opened the passenger door.

"Hey, where are we going?" He said. He sat next to me and closed the car door.

"I can't read that poem."

"Let's go to the beach."

I put the car in drive and left my mom's house, but I was coming back this time.

We drove to the other side of the island. We drove from the southeast to the northwest side of the island. The car ride was mostly silent. I turned off the AC and rolled down the windows of my mom's car. I let the breeze hit my face, ruffling my hair, and hopefully take my fears. Ed didn't say much. He held my hand for most of the ride and whispered the occasional te amo, I love you, whenever he would see I might start to cry.

It was past six o'clock when we arrived at Rincón. A small town on the northwest side of the island, known for its sunsets. I decided to take us to a spot that we had visited way too often when both of us still were living on the island. I looked for the first available parking lot and parked the car. Ed grabbed some of the jackets that he found in the back of my mom's car, we closed the doors and walked to our little spot on the beach where we could see the sunset.

We sat in a small corner, at the beach, letting the sand embrace us. The jackets we had taken from my mom's car were covered with sand, and my hair had turned into a tangled mess since I decided to jump in the cold water when we arrived. Ed's hair blended into the night, with its dark tones and sand covering his hair like the star covered our island sky. The coquís were singing very loudly, the fireflies were floating around, and I was just gazing at the stars while Ed played with my hand.

"How are you feeling?" Ed said.

"Like I want to throw up."

He laughed.

"I just…" I said.

"Take a breath, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can leave tomorrow if you want." He said.

Some people say that no one is perfect, but they're lying, Ed is perfect. Ed got on a plane and followed my crazy ass to a random state. He left his family, friends, and an established career to pursue a girl that had no clue what was next. I went from shimmering gold to a dark grey with clouds hovering all around me. He was fine with me, not knowing what to do with my life. He supported me while I jumped from job to job when we first moved out to a random state. But he immediately got a job at a big company, and he has been an engineer there ever since. He doesn't care that I'm a part-time barista, even though he knows that I have a master's degree and just need to do my thesis presentation to have my doctorate. He knows I am capable of so many things, but knows I've needed these past two years to figure out who I am. To mourn, to cry, to fight with myself and the sky. He has never pushed me because he knew I wasn't ready, but today it's different, and he knows it. I am ready, I just need to do it. I need to read that poem tomorrow and then unpause my life.

"Thank you," I said.

"Te amo."

"I guess it's time," I said as I dozed off to the sound of the waves.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I can't help but wonder what my abuela might say about my dress. "That's showing too much mija" or something like "no dejas nada para la imaginación." That I don't let people imagine what I might be hiding under my clothes. She used to complain about my outfits all the time, she was such a conservative woman but loved me, and she would usually say those things laughing and showing me her gold tooth.

"It's that a smile I see on my wife's face?" Ed said.

"Shut up," I said with an even bigger smile on my face.

"I love the dress."

I laughed way too loud when he said that, and my mom knocked on the door of the room we had been sleeping for the past few days.

She whispered through the door, "Can I come in?"

"It's okay mom, I'll be out soon."

"Okay, everyone is starting to arrive, and we have the ashes put in place too."

I heard her walk away, and my heart was now pounding loud in my ears.

"Hun, you got this. It's her favorite poem, you'll be able to do it."

"I know."

"Just know that she's been waiting for two years for you to finally recite that poem again, and she will love it as much as she did the first time."

"Thanks."

He kissed my forehead and whispered, "Te amo" before walking out to the main room.

It took a few minutes of breathing exercises, but I was finally out of the room. I said, "hi," "hello," "hola," "tanto tiempo, it's been so long," and I just tried to keep myself calm. I walked all over the room and tried to take in all the people that were there. My mom's tiny living room was filled with all my relatives and every other person that loved my abuela as much as I did. There were blue roses everywhere, and the only drink being served was ginger tea. People were all wearing blue clothes, just like me, because my grandma had requested everyone wore blue clothes for her memorial. I saw my little cousins running around the dessert table and trying to poke at the carrot cake, which was centered on the snack table because I abuela loved carrot cake. The room was filled with everything she loved and all the people she cared about. Everyone seemed happy and relieved the moment that they noticed I was in the house. Today everyone was finally saying goodbye to the person that taught us to love and dream.

I walked to the center of the room after talking for a bit with everyone. Ed had taken a chair and moved it near the snacks since he eats when he is stressed, and I was now facing everyone about to start the ending of my favorite book.

"Hi everyone," I said, "I want everyone to please take a seat since the memorial will start in a few minutes."

Everyone sat down, and all their eyes were on me now. I took a deep breath and started to recite the first poem I ever wrote.

"Memories of home…

These are the memories

That I will always share with you,

And recite with the truth.

I scrapped my knee,

And you stared at me.

Your eyes whispered,

Don't cry.

Cinnamon, cloves,

Let's even add some alcohol!

Are some of the memories,

Some of the memories of home.

Arms longing like a dog

begging for a treat.

Your avocado sofas,

mosquitos buzzing,

and you look out the door

smiling at the sight of me.

Those are my memories of home."

I don't remember what happened after I recited those words. I think I cried, maybe laughed or perhaps none of the above. I do know that I felt like the ache I had was leaving for the first time in two years. For the first time, I was not afraid of the memories of the things I had lived before, and I was ready to move. I was prepared to finish the things I had left undone, and I was eager to get back up again after this eternal falling state.