Time with Her
I can see us now—sitting side by side on the deck of our house in San Francisco. It is a beautiful late spring or early summer afternoon. Her face looks happy. She is smiling for a change and her cheeks are pink, her small brown eyes sparkle. The breeze is soft and gentle, almost like a kiss on our faces. We talk about everyday stuff and we sip the coffee she just made. My mother enjoyed gossiping about this and that, anything to get her mind off reminders of her life. They were always around—her uneasy life as a wife and mother in Buenos Aires, the loss of her mother when she was a young 20 something, factory work, moving from apt. to apt. and coming to America when, at her time of life, changing countries was the last thing she would have wanted. My mother never recovered from the death of my grandmother Ana—it was cancer of the esophagus and there wasn’t much hope. My grandmother and my mother were best friends—more like sisters than mother and daughter.