Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end.*

My grandmother passed away last night. My mother and family had been by her bedside for a week and she went peacefully and gently. I cannot be there in person (curses to the dubious legality of my living abroad), but I am doing my best to be there in spirit. When I left for Spain, I knew that something like this could happen, and that, given the limited resources of my family and myself, as well as the logistics of immigration controls, I may not be able to return to the United States if something of this nature occurred. I think this is the hardest part of living abroad, not being able to be with your family when struggling through grief. I will add this to my list of reasons to return to America eventually.

I wrote a poem for my mother, although I am not sure she will be able to read it through her tears. I would like to share it here, even though it is slightly off the tone and topic of this blog. It is an attempt to project my love further, and to feel closer.

One of the things I keep thinking about when remembering my grandmother is how she enriched my childhood by sending several large boxes of old library books to our little cabin in the woods each summer. Reading was my saving grace as a child, my education where the NM public schools failed me, my entertainment when I was lonely in the mountains, my comfort in the incredible darkness of New Mexico nights. My grandmother fed my passion for literature, literally, and I will be forever grateful.


Alma
– for my grandmother

Five in the morning, Barcelona, Spain,
my father’s voice crumbles warmth,
in trembles and pauses, you are gone.

My mother has lost her mother, and
she wails into the phone, a plastic
beacon to her far away daughter,
we are women alone in this moment,
and we have lost more than words.

All day, I stared across rooftops, sun
came and rain fell, dogs barked in the plaza,
people drank cans of beer on benches
below the balcony, laundry sagged,
clouds hid the sea, and I cradled my grief.

Now, I touch the mysterious fabric
of death, and watch my love fold
your life into words, spelled by heart.

Grandmother, mother, Alma, your name
is kind, nourishing, gentle. Your soul
is a word of worship where I am. Alma,
now you are pure soul, complete grace.

I knew you through my mother, your patience
mirrored in her, your strength filled her voice,
your honesty held her truths, your love lived
in her arms. You were never far from our lives.

Alma, you gave me words, boxes every summer,
heavy and full of dusty secrets. Pages of worlds,
stories that shaped me, lives that lived through me,
journeys taken into what it means to be human.

Alma, I give you these words, late and humble,
sent across the world, but meant with every
breath to bless, celebrate, and love you.