Posted on by Anelemc

4 things I learned when Margarita, my mom died

 

L. Alcohol is your best friend
It’s there when you need it
Has a wonderful numbing effect
Comes in a variety of grains, grapes and content
No instruction label is needed

O. Grief-the gift that keeps on giving
You never get over it
It pops up unexpectantly
Gives you lifelong membership in the Dead Moms Club
Holidays and Birthdays take on a somber meaning

 V. You imitate the qualities you miss and admired
“Giving is living” is now your motto
You wear silver and gold jewelry at the same time
Keep the sink clear of dishes before going to bed
Pine Sol, Vicks and Dawn (and the occasional Spam)

E. Do what your mom wanted for you 
(in other words: Listen to her advice)

      Relocate to a different city
(because she wanted you to)

      Get out socialize and make friends
(because she encouraged you to)

    Take care of yourself 
(because she knew you didn’t)

      Run the 2018 Nov NYC Marathon
(because she said you could)

Margarita, my mom, died one month before the 2018 NYC Marathon. As we watched the runners from the previous year on 4th avenue in Brooklyn, she turned to me and said, “You could do this”.  I thought she was crazy but decided to train for it. She entered the hospital the end of August with a twisted intestine and was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in September, at the height of my training. The botched-up surgery left her with a colostomy bag and fissures that leaked waste. We never got to the ‘treat the cancer’ part.  Throughout her hospital stay she’d ask if I put in the training when I came to spend the night.

It was not consistent but when she came home to die it picked up. My last long run, 19 miles around Prospect Park was interrupted by the funeral home alerting me to pick up my mother’s ashes. My mom, Margarita, was with me on race day, her ashes in a bracelet around my wrist and her name on the racing bib I wore on my chest. 

LOVE is my mom. 

Posted on by Anelemc

Spam I am…

Spam

The disgusting radioactive nitrate laden meat substitute 
my single mom working full time 
served with love and a pan-fried egg drenched in Mazola

Spam

Cooked in a small non-stick pan by
I, the latchkey kid to consume
after a vicious name calling day at Catholic school

Spam

Easy to open, cut into parts and thrown
into a pan of hot oil-how
the outside world treats a BLACK kid 

 Spam

The adult me still craves it and cooks it
although it’s now cooked in olive oil
as mom passed on   

 Spam

The consumption of this toxic delicacy is triggered by
childhood memories popping up time to time
along with mom working so hard

 Spam

The packaging feels like steel protecting the 
soft meat inside 
like how mí alma prepares itself before stepping out…

 * mí alma-my soul


Posted on by Anelemc

My sister Evie…or third one born

I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.

Evie was nicknamed Judy 
because she had Judy Garland eyes. I got stuck with Elenita-I guess I didn’t look like any movie star.

Born in Jamaica, 
she’s the third child and the only one born at home. I wish I had more information on her home birth but mom, my mom passed on. This is where the should haves, could haves, did not haves- the questions that grief will never answer or let you forget.

My sister
was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis years ago and though it is not medically proven I think the home birth was responsible in some way. Our family has no MS history unless it is lurking in the mud of truths be not told. 

Berkeley Place

It is not rapidly 
progressive. Evie’s eyes are affected which can make reading difficult and she has trouble walking at times. Heat and humidity exacerbate the symptoms especially in the summer when she’ll stay indoors most of the time.

She was 
an artist.
I don’t know if she continues to draw as I have not questioned her out of fear of hurting.  

Evie drew
realistic and dreamy poses of fictional characters created from the reading of romance novels. She was addicted to those novels. Yes, she read classics, but not as ferociously as she did romance novels. 

Gosh, did I mention she was a romance novel addict?
I became one too, 
reading her books as soon as she was done. I was reading Jackie Collins when I should have been figuring out what the heck Dr. Seuss meant with his words.

Five years old

She
introduced me to rock music-Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd and The Who. I also went with her to see “Tommy” when it was released in the movie theatre.
Thinking back on that experience reminds me of my first concert, “Meatloaf-Bat out of hell”, too young to understand but I went with the flow. Once again, I should have stuck to deciphering, Dr Seus. 

Evie taught me 
to play chess for which I got pretty good at. I’m not so much the strategic kinda person but rather crush, kill, destroy. 

My sister took me 
to the Brooklyn Public Library once a week, where I was able to research all those biblical things the nuns never spoke of in Catholic school. I was a pro at using the card catalog, and microfilm. My love of researching was planted and Evie helped to nourish it.

My sister Evie, third one born 
did not make fun of my depression or say I needed meds when I expressed my hurt over some family members mistreatment. Her daughter never called me stupid, crazy or insane and insisted on addressing me as Aunt even though I preferred my name.

There are much more activities and interests my sister introduced and this play with words would turn into a novel if I were to list them.

I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.

But…
I did tell my sister I loved her and she said she loved me too and that means more than all the Pringle’s in the world.