Abuelita

This piece was written for and about my late grandmother. As a queer writer, she served as a great inspiration and role model. This piece received an honorable mention at the 2017 Scholastic Art and Writing awards.

Pobre Abuelita is very sick.

She moved into a house on the Cape in November, where she lies between her doctor’s visits.

Still she has hope in her voice. Today she walked for three minutes in a row.

But with the remaining minutes of the day, she stays in her seat and writes her will.

Her sons are worried

My father has always been the strong one, so he tells me death is inevitable and it’s something we must face.

I pray for her in Spanish,

Begging for her health,

¿Por favor,

Para mi abuelita?

Sometimes I think God is listening, others I can’t tell.

The doctors say it’s spread.

There is very little she is able to do by herself.

She has a nurse that comes in to help her

And friends to buy her groceries

But there is only so much they can do.

The other day she grew confused

Mistaking friend for foe

And tried to hit her neighbour

Who was doing nothing wrong.

My birth name is Elena, but I like to go by Charlie. She calls me Charlie, and does so lovingly.

She tells me she may call me Charles instead, says it sounds more formal, and that it flows nicer

She tells me in her soft voice from hundreds of miles away that she would give anything to have the energy to play the piano again.

I miss hearing her play it.

The instrument was in a corner of her old house back in Eastham. No one paid much attention to it until she sat down on its wooden bench and began to play rapid sixteenth notes.

She used to get lost in her songs, consumed by the music.

Her body would move with as her fingers danced across the worn-down keys - Her torso used to sway along with a slow groove or her head bopped during something Beethoven.

She misses her dog, too.

More than the dog,

She misses her independence

And her morning walks

Through the woods behind her house.

Tomorrow she will try and walk for four minutes instead of three, and I will worry for three hours instead of two.