My grandmother had passed away, and with her went a great sadness in me. I was left without my grandparents, I would no longer have her sporadic visits to my house or meet her when I walked my dog. I would no longer receive the secret gifts that she hid from her other grandchildren, such as bread, juice, or cookies. She was gone, and I had not taken advantage of the last few days she was conscious to talk to her at length and find out a little more about her life.
My mistake was not taking advantage of that time with her.
I had not cried before, but when I visited her in the hospital, some moments made my heart of stone go limp. She just wasn't the same, she was emaciated from her illness, and the last time I saw her healthy she was strong. There was a big difference that broke my mind. I visited her every day when I could and I would sit and look at her, watching the asymmetrical rhythm of her breathing, a rhythm that already indicated that she was going to die.
Whenever I was alone with her, I would talk to her, and tell her about my life and how I was about to finish my internship report. I also told her that I wished she could have been at my graduation, that I wanted her to be proud of me and that I would make it to the top, that I would surpass all my relatives. I knew she was not going to recover, so I looked at her and wondered what she was thinking if she was thinking in the limbo she was in. Intubated, I wondered if she would feel invaded and if she would know that I was with her. Surely, if she were awake, she would ask me if I was going sailing soon, because lately, I had a bad habit of asking obvious questions, as did my father and I when we were looking for forced conversation.
My grandmother was shy and very innocent in her later years. She tended to read news of murders or sensational stories that would alarm her, and she would run and tell us about it and put the house on alert. In her youth, however, she was stricter with her children, according to my father. My mother also said that when she first started living with my father, my grandmother sabotaged their relationship by dirtying the clothes she washed and didn't pay much attention to us. At that time, her favorite grandson was my cousin.
Over the years, however, she had redeemed herself and always sought an outlet to express herself in our home. She would escape from her apartment provided by my father, where she lived with my aunt and her family. She would come to us to talk because her own home did not allow her to speak freely. My mother had forgotten her first encounters with my grandmother because the lady was already old and tried to seal her bad deeds of the past with actions. I don't know if they are true, everyone has their version of the story and unfortunately, I never got to know it.
The grandmother, Analia Rondón, was not a native of the Guairean coast, she was a Gocha from Mérida, Pueblo Llano, who had come with her cousin at the age of nine to look for work. At some point in her life, she met my grandfather, Luis Carlos Garate, and together they gave life to the Garate family of four children.
At the funeral, I saw several generations of Garate and Rondón, as we all looked alike and had inherited facial features from my grandmother and grandfather. His siblings who lived in La Guaira and also siblings who lived in his hometown had come. All with their children and grandchildren. The Garate's with their bitter faces and the Rondón's with their friendly faces, all mourning the loss.
Although I did not engage them all in conversation, I watched them from a distance. I watched as they talked and laughed about seeing each other again. I thought it was unfortunate that such large families would meet again after so many years of the loss of life. My family is generally not very social with others. We are hermits who live our lives individually. But despite our reluctance to be sociable, the Garate family can come together to help in times of need.
There, I talked with my relatives, each of whom excels in his or her field. Some were beginning their professional careers as translators, others were beginning their university careers, some were already at the head of the Interpol department as chief, others were in a position in the electrical service, as well as many others were emerging in their way in this hostile world called life.
As I write these words, I remember every moment with my grandmother. When I met her walking my dog, as well as the invitation to come to my house, when she was at my house and said she had to leave because my uncle Carlo was coming to visit her, when she asked me when I was going to graduate, when she secretly bought bread and bananas to take home, when she tried to talk to me about the disasters of the government.
Each memory loosened my heart and I let out some tears that I had held back to make me the strong one, the one that nothing could affect a distinctive Garate. Because none of us cried in front of the others when we buried my grandmother. Each of the Garates looked at the others for signs of an inner meltdown, but we held our ground while she was buried. Although I admit that I had to cross my arms and stare at a fixed point to keep from crying. I didn't want to, but now that I'm writing and alone, I can cry in my lonely room because my grandmother is gone.
Cover and Banner made in Canva; Author's own image taken with Xiaomi Redmi Note 9 S, Separators made in photoshop
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@ricardo993, you didn’t post this in the community. You tagged it, but did not post it in the correct place. As a result, we missed the post.
Oh ok ok I did not notice it. Also thank you very much for reading.