A Widow's Loss

I see my grandmother the day after the burial. She is happy to see me, but distracted. You can see the forlorn look in her eyes. She's lost in both the past and the present. She doesn't seem quite sure of...anything. Abuela is wearing blue today – his favorite color. I wonder if it was on purpose or not. Her hair is cropped low-management short. An unpleasant pixie of gray-white and honest, aged red. In moments when she recollects herself, her eyes cloud over. Blood rushes into her ears and the thoughts - "He's dead! My husband is dead....And he's not coming back!" - scream reality back into place. She holds us each in turn when nature wakes the heart from it's ill-numbing coma. Tears flush down her face. You can hardly understand her words, but her feelings blare out – clear as the freckles on our arms.


I saw her lapse.
We were at home. We had gotten food and had just finished eating. Initially she had begged Mom not to let her go home. Sadness consumes. Mom compromised to leave after eating. But, we lingered talking about – what else? - (more) food. Chinese, no less. But the topic didn't matter. Abuela looked at the clock – 6:08 (by my eyes). Her eyes clouded – she's in a confused time-space. She turns to my Aunt – the fragile caregiver.
<"Did you give your dad his medicine?"> She asked. We all looked stunned. Confused.
My Aunt responded, < "But Mami—">
< "Did you give him his medicine? It's really important he get's his medicine. He needs his medicine...">
My Aunt just looks at her; she compromises truth. < "Yes, I gave it to him when he needed it...">
Abuela smiles. Tears flow down, slowing. She's hit the present, but the blow wasn't hard this time. She resorts to present tears while lingering onto past memories.