November 1981
Abuela passed today. I knew it was coming, so the call did not come as a surprise. What did surprise me was how I felt nothing. I was in a hurry when Don José called at 7:30 and one of my feet was already out the door. Can’t afford to lose this job, you know? Maybe I should lose it. Maybe this was Abuela’s final blessing: get me fired and force me to find a job that better suits my degree. But I’ve tried that so many times. This place, it isn’t good, but it pays the rent and puts food in my mouth.
I felt nothing when I got off the phone or worked through the day. Not even when I had lunch at the food court. It was on the way back on the bus that I felt my stomach give out. Abuela is dead and I cannot fly out to see her. Abuela is dead and Mom says it’s my fault her heart gave out. I wasn’t there to cause that to happen. I haven’t been there in eight years. I think that’s what she meant. What a mean thing to tell her son.
I will set up an altar for her. One with that old photo of her sitting on the porch with the magnolias in her lap. —M.D.
This one I can place. Doña Leticia died on November 27th, 1981, making this the earliest (as of yet) entry in Dad's journal. To be fair, I don't think this was meant to be a part of his broader collection since it lacked his usual nonsensical annotations. He talked about her a lot when I was growing up, always with incredible gentleness, even if I'm yet to come across another mention of her across this massive stack of papers. She seemed like a kind woman, and I wish I could say the same about my grandmother. [The entirety of this entry was translated from Spanish into English by yours truly.] - Poppy