DEATH, you shall die

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.        John Donne

 I don’t understand death.

Death is a void that comes twenty seconds after a catheter is inserted on a dog’s hind to euthanize her. Then what is life? How can life step aside so willingly after we have struggled to preserve it since the first breath we take?

I don’t understand life.

Life surrenders keenly to the will of death. That is the vulnerability of life.

We spend a lifetime preserving, enhancing, protecting, cherishing, promoting and respecting life and yet, comes the monster and with complete disregard takes it all away in seconds.

Being the person I am, needy to know the whys, hows and the whens of all life changing events, death is the biggest puzzle yet.

I don’t understand death. I don’t understand life.

 DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

 Why can the instant when the hue of death brushes by our precious existence be allowed to befall? I don’t understand why we are even here, what the sense of all of this may be. I doubt the true meaning of success, when failure is just the same when the line is cut short. Do we earn eternal life by struggling beyond our means? Do we get Brownie points by dreaming far and beyond what we would expect to be or attain? When our breaths start dimming and life is slowly expelled from our frame, we are all the same- winners and losers, fighters and quitters, rich and poor, men of faith and agnostics. We all expire.

So what is the meaning of struggle? The struggle to preserve this life that is so easily stripped and yanked from our souls.

Death is eternal and life is short-lived, so is life really life and not death if what is forever is death and not life?

“I’ll love you forever….”

 “I will be with you forever…”

Forever???  How can we assert any such a statement whilst we know more than well that life is obliterated in an instant and the only perennial truth is death?  

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

As days go by I try to harmonize with death. I cannot fight it, I cannot conquer or belittle “him”, or is it “her”?  I simply harmonize and try to adapt to the void it bequests and the pain it inflicts in stealth torture.

Death is the relinquishing of illusion. Illusion is what we concoct to muddle through the cruel realities of life. And when death claims its loot, illusion absconds and cruelty remains.  

Life is a gift bestowed unto us by a power so enigmatic and misconstrued. A gift that can be retrieved, a given with an expiry date. Life is a lustrous pearl, like that described beautifully in  Steinbeck’s Kino whose luck seems to have changed for the better when he acquired a lustrous pearl but ends up losing himself.

Life is many a time described as a tale of irony when one must lose something to be able to attain another. Death is more often ironic, surrounded by teachings and lessons that others may learn and therefore through the passage of time, preach and deliver to others such pearls. Some die so that others may tell their life stories and convey the wisdoms that were brought on by their passage to the other side.  Some perish to feed those who stay behind with the spoils of contentment for a job well done, but for others it shall be remorse that only the malignancy of under-appreciation can hold. Some die so that others can learn a lesson of time lost, of kind words not spoken, of good deeds that went undone. Some die to give others a second chance. Death is a monster of irony that taketh our hearts and leaveth none but a cruel moral.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

We relish going out of our way to preserve life, however miserable it may be, but appreciate little the soul life. Common morality tampers with quality of life. For the value of existence relies heavily on the quality of presence and not on the longevity of such. It is not by longevity of time by which we beat death, it is by the dignity by which we last exhale. So today I state that if I am deprived of declaring war to death, I shall surrender on my own terms. I shall decide when life is no longer worth living and I’ve had enough. No longer will death believe it can toss me around like a cat does a yarn ball, no longer will death ascertain to tease me by allowing me to grasp a good breath and then near choking me again. I shall leave this world in my own terms.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;

Death, you tooketh my mother firstly. You toyed with her health for weeks and when you were good and ready you lashed and yanked her from my flank. My mother went not unpunished from the wrath of your whims, she succumbed excruciatingly and unhurriedly, the manner which you thrive. My father was humiliated by your madness when it was engraved on his frame the manner in which he would succumb. Once again you were the predator and he, your unwilling prey. What gives you this power over all living beings? Where gain you the strength and desire to create such a spectacle before the last dance?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

And no!!! Death, you may be perpetual- forever, but mighty and dreadful you’re not.

If I must play God before allowing you to drag my existence through your dark and miserable corridors, I shall, for I am no rag doll, for I am no toy. Today I have played God and decided that enough was enough. Death you have lost, for I have unequivocally chosen for a loved one to leave your web and carry on with her fate. I don’t understand death, I don’t understand life but I can rheostat their course.

I hereby deprive you of all power, I hereby declare you dead.

DEATH be not proud, for although some have called you

mighty and dreadful, but indeed, you are not

I hereby deprive you of all power, I hereby declare you dead.

Her name is Lexxy. An adorable two year old, white ash grey and black female Akita.

She is Royalty, a purebred, papers and all! She came to my son’s life after having selected another puppy, a brown white Akita. I think she was a discount puppy, one of those puppies that are left behind in the litter, at the end of the list of prospective parents and therefore, the breeders offer a small discount to make up one’s mind. Why “brown white” dog never made it to my son’s home, I don’t know, but Lexxy did and he is absolutely smitten by her. She is an adorable shy girl with eyes so expressive that seems like she’s actually speaking to you.

Lexxy is not what you call a “behaving badly” dog, she is a “Behaving Weirdly” Diva!
Have you ever seen an Akita not walk, but MOONWALK instead? Lexxy does.
Have you seen a dog that is scared out of her mind by the sight of a staircase? Lexxy is. She may go down the stairs if whatever is at the bottom is interesting enough…

                                    However, going up the stairs is a different story!!!!!

Have you ever seen a dog ONLY move about in the house in rooms that are carpeted? Or hop from area rug to area rug to avoid stepping on wood or tiles?
Well… this is our Lexxy.
Lexxy’s gear box is always in REVERSE. She plays fetch in the house with my other dog MISSY, a 4 year old Fox Terrier, but they play their own way. Missy takes the ball around the house and drops it expecting Lexxy to come get it. Lexxy runs towards the ball and stops on her tracks as she comes to the end of the rug. Then she proceeds to do a 180 degree turn and moonwalks really slowly and carefully towards the ball. She grabs the ball, does another 180 degree turn and moonwalks in the same latter manner to the carpeted area where she will drop the ball once more for Missy to take it away. They do this over and over again.
When Missy becomes extremely hyperactive, she will run up and down the stairs with the ball and drop it at the top of the staircase. Lexxy will then just sit at the foot of the staircase and watch in sadness… and she watches, and stares without even attempting to set paw on the first step, and then she leisurely moonwalks back to the safest area in the house – my studio that has a thick Persian rug that is both warm and cushiony. She will lie down resting her head on top of her two paws, in a pensive manner.

Missy will eventually understand her handicap and will bring down the ball back to her to continue the endless game on the main floor. And so playtime goes on until one of them falls asleep in exhaustion.
I dog sit for Lexxy at least three times a week when my son Christopher is at work for long hours or he is out of town. The spectacle of her ways is such, that house guests are always amused by the show. We have tried endlessly to walk with her side by side to show her that she needs to shed this OCD behaviour! Need I say it’s useless? I don’t doubt we are doing something wrong. Because the narcissist thought of us having the only MOONWALKER AKITA is a bit too egoistic! Lexxy is the canine version of Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie “As good as it gets”, he would not step on the union of the pavement, he would not leave certain rooms etc etc… This is Lexxy. The most amazing pooch ever!!!

“She called me Cuncunca”

Her name was Lucía. She was born in 1914 in Amecameca, an uneventful pictorial town in Central Mexico which uniqueness arises from the fact that it’s located between the Popocatépetl volcano and the Ixtaccihuatl mountain, the most identifiable, romantic and legendary natural milestones in my motherland. You can’t read a more compelling story than this one, except for the journal of my mother’s life who was the grand-daughter of a National Revolutionary Hero, a most devoted daughter, a loving wife and a caring mother.

Lucia’s schooling was common to the times. Since both her grandfather and father had been assassinated as a consequence of the Mexican War, my grandmother did what most single parents; my six year old mom was sent to boarding school and her brother to military school. My mom’s experiences with early education consisted of some horrid tales from that wretched place ran in antagonistic comportment by American missionary nuns. When she finished high school, she joined the finest Secretarial School in Mexico City, just as hundreds of well-brought-up young women did in those times. Seems like men of the epoch had decided that women would either adorn the gateways of their office buildings, take dictation and serve coffee, or engage in motherhood and homemaking matters. I recently learned that for years my mother was the Private Secretary of Gustavo Diaz Ordáz, a prominent lawyer alumni from the University of Puebla, then, a high profile legislator who became the President of Mexico in 1964. My mom wanted it all, she did it all.

My mom flourished into an intelligent, refined stylish woman, distinguished and delicately coquette. Despite never attending Finishing School, she possessed immaculate manners and knew protocol for every occasion to the detail. I was told that whenever she entered a room, all the other women would turn and whisper. I need not know what they gossiped about; I can only imagine since the balance of male attention always shifted with her regal entry. Her intriguing persona was a natural people magnet. She was not a woman of threatening beauty, but that of subtle attractiveness, female sophistication and “lady ways”. She was naively oblivious to the power of her classic beauty, her to-die-for legs, a 20 inch waistline, excellent birthing hips and voluptuous breasts. She never exploited her looks and always dressed appropriately with prudence and good sense. She was a true Lady.

My mom married the Top Gun in the Aviation School in Puebla, where my grandmother ran a guest house for students, and my dad was a boarder. He fell head-over-heels when he first saw her. Poor man, he had no chance! My parents got married during WWII, and the thought of my father being summoned to join the war as part of the 201 Squadron along with the USA Air Force, scared her terribly. Fortunately for all, the war ended and my father joined a commercial airline instead. His privileged economical situation permitted my mom to have a home of her own and a position of honourable social stature. Aviators in my country were regarded as   “México’s Revered Sons”. Lucía was a learned woman; she read every paper, journal, magazine, or book that made it to her hands, from Good Housekeeping Monthly and Reader’s Digest, to hardcover books on History of Art; from where she acquired an impeccable taste in furnishings and décor.

My aunt would send her clip-outs of articles published in American magazines, and she would keep the illustrations by Norman Rockwell and carefully recreated the coziness portrayed in those images. My father would hold parties to show off the home and her hostess skills, and she would always astonish the guests with her ambrosial culinary talent. Lucía dressed in elegant and immaculate attire: Chanel two piece suit, triple string of pearls, matching earrings and bracelet, stilettos, Madame Rochas her fragrance, and the self-assurance of a reigning Queen. On special occasions she wore her hair on a French chignon with long bangs that rested dramatically behind her right ear.

I fell in love with this remarkable woman the minute I laid eyes on her.

I came late into my mother’s life, but still on time to realize that no woman carried the prototype of the perfect homemaker of the 50´s like my mother did. I know this because she turned me into a Lady while still in diapers.

She called me “Cuncunca”, a term of endearment that I created for my dolls; I was her life size doll. My mom was never happier than when she held me in her arms. I was all hers and she was all mine.

My mom and I

In the fifties, Mexico was under the spell of Americanism and European influence. We embraced their art, culture, language, and in general their way of life. Any sophisticated lady would include French and English words in her speech, so did my mother. We did not serve finger food, they were Hors D´oeuvres. They drank French Champagne, German wine and enjoyed Belgian chocolate, Dutch cheese, Russian Caviar, and fresh sea food from the Pacific or the Atlantic, from either, or from both. My mother’s table was a culinary trip through the delicacies found in remote places in the world. Lucía embraced such influence and was the Bona-Fide interpreter of all foreign persuasion: Chrysler, Lalique, Lladró, Murano, Swarovsky, Hummel, Campbell’s, etc., and even clothes Made in Mexico, but bought in The United States.

I have this memory of coming back home from grade school and running inside the house. She was who I first saw as I opened the door. She would dust the paintings on the living room walls standing on one bare foot on the five–seater sofa, the other leg up, still black stiletto on her foot; bright yellow latex gloves, hand-made linen apron with straps made of French lace, silk stockings, spotless soft day make-up, single string of pearls, and an ash-black cashmere sweater and skirt (nobody looked better in tight cashmere sweaters than she did!); all this while camouflaging her hair set in curlers with a silk Hermès Scarf around her head, in preparation for the evening out with my dad. That is how this outstanding lady would do the housework; this is the memory of her that I have ingrained in my head.

My mom immersed me in art and culture from a very early age. She invited me to the Palace of Fine Arts to see the Ballet Bolshoi five times in her lifetime; those are as many times as the Ballet had visited Mexico. As a young child, I was a student of all Dancing Studios in the vicinity of my home. I owned a Tutu, a Hawaiian grass skirt, Tap shoes, castanets, and an array of traditional Folklore dresses from Mexico; so it seemed natural for her to take me to those amazing shows. My mom pledged to give me the education she never had. I often begged her to desist, to no avail! When I finally convinced her that dressed in a tutu, I looked like the hippo in the movie Fantasia, she pulled me out of the dancing circuit and registered me in a correspondence course from “La Maison du Haute Couture”.

It didn’t stop there, she signed me up in after-school knitting classes; she talked a renowned cook into granting me a six-weekend mentorship and got me a summer scholarship from the Arts and Design Institute. My mother made sure I kept myself busy and my every waking moment occupied.

“Idle hands are the devil’s playground”, – and that’s how she justified my busy schedule and my childhood chronic fatigue. At the untimely age of thirteen I had acquired enough skill and knowledge to knit my own wedding dress, cater my banquet and decorate the grand ballroom myself; lest we forget that I was also physically equipped and adept to be a mother. Like all the women in my lineage before me, I was a wholesome woman of the 50´s in my early teens.

During the hot summer days, we would go to the race track to see the Derby. She talked to me about horses and although I was dispassionate on the matter, I loved wearing fine cotton flowery dresses, white patent shoes, lace gloves, and beautiful straw hats adorned with fresh flowers. I was only twelve the last time I went to the race track and I have never been back since, but I clearly remember that she badly wanted me to have a good time, so she would pretend that the winning mare had been the horse of my choice.

If, on an uneventful weekend, I insisted on turning on the TV in mid morning, she would tune to the Arts Channel which would play ten hours straight of Opera and Ballet. I grew up with Pavlova, Caruso and Callas, and absorbing selected bits of trivia from all sources. I learned to appreciate Il Bel Canto and even took formal singing instruction and discovered I was a fairly good Mezzo-soprano. My mother wanted me to have the opportunities and to accomplish what she had not; she always wanted the best for me.

Lucy, as everyone called her, dedicated her life to loving and serving her family. She was the most faithful wife, devoted to tending to my father’s every whim. Women in those days obeyed their husbands blindly and never questioned any decision taken by them. Lucy surrendered her soul and will when she pledged to honour and love this man till death parted them. She adopted the part of the perfect woman to incontestable heights. I have a hard time remembering any occasion in which I was up and she was not already dressed to the nines. Even in pain and being bedridden, this woman was a doll. She never complained, never showed anger or dissatisfaction; if anything went astray, she just made it better quietly, with the grace and grandeur of the women of the 50´s. These women cried in silence, behind closed doors, in complete solitude. If something broke, they fixed or replaced it, whatever was needed, they supplied it, and if anything perished, they buried it.

The Friday Night Club scenario was in vogue in the fifties. Twenty musician orchestras like Pérez Prado were in fashion and Nat King Cole was a hit in Mexico. Often celebrities from abroad would work the Clubs of the big city. All the women in my life had a crush on Mannix, Mike Connors, who they all met personally at the Riviera Nightclub; Lucy, Laura and Dulce were all awestruck by the size of his eyelashes and they pulled them to verify they were real! I have the picture of that night in my hand; my mom wore a silk “little black dress”, a fake fur coat (she was always politically correct), and her soft curly brown hair hanged coiffure perfect with a flip under a heavy coat of hairspray. Her face was the conception of Max Factor: Paris Red lipstick, Pan-Cake foundation, soft smoke eye shadow, pearly pink rouge, and heavy charcoal eyeliner. Her jewellery was loud, flashy and genuine, with real diamonds and precious stones. It was the time before cubic zirconias, the era of solid 18 and 24 karat gold, the period of “nothing fake” and all true. She was all true… one of a kind.

My God -Mothers, Laura Malvaez de Mtz. and Dulce Pages de Rebollar, and Lucía, my mother at the Riviera Nightclub (1959)

The morning after a night out, I would walk into her bedroom and try on her high heels, zip up her black dress on my undefined girly body and put a heavy coat of rouge on my cheeks; I then applied lipstick and squirted tons of Rochas all over myself to mitigate the strong smell of night life and cigarettes. I spewed hairspray so indiscriminately that even my eyelashes stuck to my eyebrows. I’d wrap the faux-fur around my shoulders and marched in a nonchalant manner down the stairs. My mother looked majestic as she glided the length of the trail from the bedroom to the car the night before; I looked like a shrunken version of Cruella DeVille, but felt like a million bucks! I wanted to be my mother, I couldn’t wait to grow up and look like her, dress like her, live like her.

One day, my mother let me wear her formal apparel all day long and even cook my famous soup from discarded vegetable peel, and mud cakes “à la mode” for dessert in full fashionable style. Since I was allowed to go to the front yard and sit under the sun on our patio bench, I also borrowed her black studded sunglasses so that the world would see me in full ceremonial garb… if not the whole world, at least the twins next door who often denied me the privilege of their playful company.

I remember my Mom’s Tupperware parties with all the wives of the aviation world. My two God-Mothers would arrive in full designer gear, beehive hairdo, looking ravishing and flawless as they gracefully detached their sunken stilettos from the grassy road on the way to the main door. They carried platters filled with delectable food and a huge crystal punch bowl which travelled from party to party to accommodate the cocktail needs in such events. Pearls were big in those occasions; lots of Van Cleef & Arpel cultured and rare pearls were paraded as their hands softly swayed up in the air, or pointed at something, or greeted one another. My house had become the gregarious soirée version of Swan Lake. I was mesmerized by all these stunning women, they smelled fantastic, and they looked sensational. They were so gracious and elegant and their sophisticated poise was kept with no apparent duress, even though, observing such lady-like posture was the cause of my mother’s scoliosis which afflicted her in her last years.  

These role models abided by the rule of “what happened in the home, stayed in the home” and seldom were we aware of any problems affecting any of the group. It was the Silent Era, the times of the many topics “we didn’t speak of”, and so we did not. I grew up with only peer-knowledge on sex, reproduction and birth matters. It was the era of natural embarrassment, when speaking about a delicate matter would make a lady blush. I cannot recall the last time anyone, from my generation, flushed when hearing an uncomfortable fact of life.

These precious women were creative when encrypting alternate surnames to the body parts which already had legitimate names, as well as pet names for their own intimate parts:

 I was first visited by the “Drop of Blood from a Rose Stem” at eleven years of age. Nothing could’ve prepared my mom for this inconspicuous, but inevitable fact! My BOO BOOS were size 32B (also at eleven), so she was even more unprepared for this visible reality. When she took me to the paediatrician to discuss my “unfortunate situation”, she was horrified by the fact that I was forwarded to an OBGYN, and when she finally took me to the “women’s doctor”, she reluctantly discussed my condition by calling it “mensies”. When the doctor attempted to utter the word “vagina”, she interrupted half way and called it my “VeeVee”. She dubbed every sentence the doctor said to fit her rating system, and thus controlled the amount of forbidden words that I would go home with; and THAT, launched me in a spiral of verbal perplexity for many years to come.

I remember she almost fainted when the doctor told me I had become a woman, and pinpointed that I had the physical capability of becoming pregnant – I might’ve looked sixteen, but I was barely eleven and I was as shocked as my mother! The trip back home was nothing but a straight forward attempt to do major damage control and deprogram the doctor’s statements. Lucy had never discussed such matters with her mother; and so, I would never discuss such issues with her. It was a family tradition and stigma of the period; and a sign that the times called for a change.

My mother was a true Lady, no doubt. If you opened any of her drawers, her clothes were neatly folded and those delicate silk items were wrapped in rice paper or cellophane sheets. Perfumed Sachets embraced her intimate apparel. She hand-washed her undies and Bras with fine silk soap shavings and hanged them to dry inside the shower or in full privacy on a special mesh rack in the back yard. She carried breath mints and individual bags of Kleenex in her purse because:  

- “A Lady must always have a Kleenex at hand, you never know when your make-up will need touching up, or you will shed a tear and your make-up and nose will run.” And so my first purse, when I was three, had nothing else but a breath mint and plenty of tissue.

On February 16, 2004, this beloved woman passed away at the age of ninety. During the wake and viewing, my father and relatives all insisted on me approaching her open casket to say goodbye. I cried in despair; nobody understood that I refused to see this gorgeous, free-spirited woman encaged in a wooden coffin. I had said goodbye to her the night she died as she showered me with the scent of a million flowers in my office, half the country away. I said goodbye to her the last time I saw her alive in my home, and I choose to remember her as the dazzling woman on top of the sofa, feather duster in hand, dressed in cashmere with high heels, hand-made apron and silk scarf on her head, huge smile and arms spread wide open with my arrival.

I celebrate her birthday every year in full 50´s attire; her grandchildren cook her favourite dishes and we sit around the table looking at pictures of the era and telling stories of how this magnificent woman touched our lives.

Her name is Lucía, she called me Cuncunca, and she lives in my heart.  

One of the days I saw my mom the happiest. She had so much fun, I’ll never forget her jokes, her wit and her sarcasm.

 “Oftentimes, a longing for where one will find spiritual bliss steels oneself on even a brutal journey to get there.”

I walk towards the art studio in the back of my dwelling. Full gear wraps my body: down jacket, earmuffs, heavy wool scarf, legwarmers, knee high Australian UGGs, and sheepskin lined leather gloves. I shiver the path of thirty footsteps amidst snow and ice as well. The cold wind feels like blades cutting away the flesh of my face, at -58.4oC (minus fifty eight point four centigrades) it is said to be the coldest day in Edmonton in 28 years. Darkness has already set in and only a few hours have passed from mid-day. The silence is eerie, no chirping of birds, no barking of dogs, no faded chatter of people in the background, I might as well be the only soul alive. Breathing is difficult and it gets worse as I stress over a frozen latch that will not take a key. I remove my gloves and rub my hands together, steadily and steadfast to warm them up with no avail. Frost has built heavily and I must blow my warm breath against the keyhole, repeatedly, until finally the ice melts and opens way to my key, and I am in. This is the room which was once a garage; it’s the haven where dreams are created, the oasis where fantasies come true.

I have in my hand, a calendar picture of my next project in mind. I place the image by the easel and close my eyes as I envision in my head, what will fill the canvas of my choice. I put my dreams in the hands of a master painter, among the best interpreters I know. For sure he will translate in colour, the sweet smell of Tuscany gently seducing the wind. I find myself somewhere else, a warmer climate, a friendlier scene…

My absence from this reality is interrupted by my son as he walks in the studio. He sheds his winter skin and puts on his painting smock; As he sets fresh paint on his palette, he glances at my idea in paper and asserts; 

- Oh I see! La Toscana it is. Mamma mia!

A strong thump and a memorable grumble call our attention. Jeny breaks the dreadful silence of the outside as she slips on ice holding a bottle of Chianti in one hand and a freshly baked pizza in the other. Her colourful language still suspended in the paralysed echo of the frozen atmosphere; No harm is done, no broken bones, the thin crust still on the tray and our vino intact. The mood has been set and off to Italy we go!

The adventure begins as the pointillist brushstrokes loaded with cadmium orange make love to a once empty canvas – fine Italian linen it is, most adequate for these paintings, used by artist predecessors who knew best. 

I’ve always loved Italy. I first fell in love at 4 years of age when I heard an old record of Caruso’s rendition of Pagliacchi. I last visited decades ago but I vividly remember the coarse texture of those aged rustic walls, the enticing smell erupting from the Trattorias, the sweetness of the wine that lures warmth to my body from soul to toe. I lose myself in Marcello, and Giancarlo, and Amadeo as well… Three resilient studs who showered me with flattery, sexual innuendos and flowers for a whole day. Ah! La Fontana di Trevi… I sat on the rim of the fountain, the chill of the white Carrara marble refreshing my naked thighs… I can still feel the cold  water trickling down my hand as I guarded my back from “scostumatto Giorgio” and pushed “swift-hands Francesco” away.  

- Più vino, mamma mia?

 Kenny inquired, as he drew me back to the studio, in the coldest city in the world, or so it was declared for one day, on December 13, 2008 – Santa Lucia, the day.

-No!!! I want to go back… I was in Italy, Rome to be precise.

As I stare at the painting in progress, I cannot help but graciously abandon myself. I can reach out and touch the row of olive green cypress trees breaking the impressionistic blue sky on a rolling hilltop. Trees so high and so characteristic to this land, that only with lofty bold brushstrokes one can express in the foreground. Audacious expressionist pats for the gamma of greens to create their chaotic structure, gentler and vertical strokes for the smaller greeneries and more forthcoming shrubs. I can smell the linseed oil that fills the Studio and that slowly vanishes into the sultry breeze that gently tosses my hair and plays with it on my face.      

My senses awaken and make me vulnerable to the coarseness of the foliage as it gently prickles the palm of my hand, from miles apart. I inhale the heart-warming glamour of the greyish orange Tuscan late noon light. My bare feet tickle as they are fondled by the moist viridian green grass. A red sea of poppies plays intriguingly with my exposed skin.

I find myself speaking the language of the birds; I can construe their songs with a unique spectrogram of vocalization which is far better than subjective onomatopoeic or phonetic renderings. I am one with my surroundings; I understand the flora, the fauna, the mythology and the grandiose history of this mythical place. I feel, smell, talk, sense, breathe, sweat, eat and drink Italy, just as I did decades ago when I first promised to return to this land with a life of my own.

As I walk my dog Maya down the golden path, I catch a glimpse at the other painter in my heart, since being in Italy, when in Rome, do as the Romans do, I am Patrizia and he, Giovanni del mio cuore, of name.

Mi amore has set his Soltek in Lucca, by the old medieval castle now in ruins. As I explore the region with Maya, my wandering eye follows the silhouette of the Olive groves and the endless grapevines rallying painstakingly down the face of a hill. Olive greens define the vineyards drunken by the warm orange Tuscan light. I surprise el carissimo mio with some vino rosso from the town of Barolo, and a picnic basket encumbered with an allotment of fine Italian dishes prepared by Vikingo, my son, the Chef. We stop and bask on the beauty of our surroundings, we toast to life, and we take a deep breath of this enchanting sky and hold hands. Giovanni turns to me and caresses my neck; he kisses me passionately holding on to my breath as if never wanting to let me go. I am yanked by the back and waist. He presses me gently against his torso; my heart skips a beat, more than one for sure. I am so elated by the bittersweet taste of Barolo on his lips. “Ti voglio tanto bene, amore mio!”- I declare.

My skimpy silk dress falls from my body as his hands reinvent my shapes. I stand almost naked under the balmy Tuscan sun, dressed only by the air between my crevices and mounts. The wind sways through the vineyards and some grapes fall to my feet. Giovanni kisses his way to the ground from my forehead down. He feeds me grapes, one by one, in a lip transfer style… I am elated… I am being loved under the Tuscan sun.

A powerful gust of arctic wind snatches me from paradise. Papers take wing and chairs topple over, the wheezing reverberation of unpredictable blustery weather outside has crept into the studio like an unwelcomed stowaway. Suddenly my nakedness is gone and I freeze my teeth as I walk to the entrance to shut closed that darn door. Kenny’s canvas flew across the room but the painting is untouched. Pizza slices now cover the floor, however, Jeny managed to hold on to the bottle of wine, so again it’s unharmed. The furnace goes on frantically to stabilize the temperature, and we put on our jackets until this is done. Order restored, I am once more reminded of my harsh Canadian winter reality, only to ignite in me, the need to dream some more.

I always wanted to rent an old rustic villa, maybe near San Gimignano, although Massa Marittima, the Etruscan town, is an option I will consider. DH Lawrence once wrote of Volterra: -“ it gets all the wind and sees all the world… an inland island”, and I, Patrizia, shall be there. I want to rent an old estate I can fix and keep myself busy. Nothing fancy… running water a must, and long golden paths to go on bike rides. I want to buy my pannino at the local bakery, walk back home as I bite pieces off my freshly baked loaf. I want a friend called Alessia, a milkman Filippo, a butcher Enzo and a plumber Adriano. I want to sit outside in the open air, deflower a fine bottle of Valpolicella whilst smitten by romance in the air. I want to practice the language with the elder women in the village, le Nonne, who know it all.

I long to drench my soul in the mysticism of old wives’ tales and memorize folk stories only appropriate to these towns. I want to blend in, wear linen skirts, cotton shirts, embroidered string sandals, flowery aprons and flashy silk scarves on my head – dance the Tarantella, loosen my spirits and watch as my inhibitions depart.

Laptop at hand, I imagine myself sitting in front of breathtaking scenery, writing a book, an award winning novel that will set my name apart and launch me to the realms of Dante, Boccaccio or Petrarch… forse domani! Perhaps… The pages of this new novel shall depict the curved directional strokes paving the hillsides of Cortona that mark the path of my next morning promenade holding hands with Giovanni, my love. I shall describe the scene in full detail, the heart-warming stroll next to this man who I have worshipped for decades, loved, followed, served, and defended for all of my life. I shall forever enchant my readers by telling them about his beautiful hands, his perfect profile, the symmetry of his head and his beautiful smile. They shall stand perplexed by my unyielding power to love this earthly man, and be equally terrorized by his indomitable capability to dismember this love.  Questo è  l´amore! O, prezioso amore!

My artisticoletterario journey continues, and in a wink of an eye, we are transported to Siena, I wonder what transpires inside those medieval hill towns staring vigilantly upon a realm that has been charily cultivated since the moment in time when the Romans ruled. As we meander along this heavenly landscape, I cannot help but cry. I am happier than many a day in my life. I put my Leica in my tote, a picture will fall short, I do the same with my handycam; a video will neither do this spectacle justice, nor will it forever capture the magnitude of my dreams. I better speak the languages imposed by the masters of pigment and canvas story telling. I dialogue with the only ones who have successfully told the story of this magnificent place, Michelangelo, Donatello, Raphael and so many more. I am standing tall overlooking the same land that was once their inspiration, now transcribed into a fine work of art hanging from some musky wall in a famous museum. I borrow their land that has housed all these talents, la culla del Rinascimento. Italy, I’ve made you mine.

-“Ascoltami,  mamma mia… la pittura Toscana è finita”.

The proverbial sounds of a family life awaken me from this reverie. As I was being drawn back to the studio, I witnessed my lifetime thoughts pass me by. I remain captive within these artistic four walls. The distant sound of heavy brushstrokes against a linen canvas and the tangy odours of citrus thinner and linseed oil refresh my memory and anchor me back in the city of the bitter cold. I approach the painting… a masterpiece of colour and light. A place so different from the reference picture taped to the easel, but exactly as I imagined in my most flamboyant dreams, perfection via pigment and cloth. I remain in awe, mesmerized by the likeness of an artistic rendition, to the source of my dreams.

-“Dio mio! La pittura è splendida! It’s exactly the place I have in my mind! It’s lusciously beautiful, remarkably stunning.

I got lost in myself for so long that I failed to notice the progress of the painting. The rustic villa is exactly as I imagined. Beautiful, old, worn out, scraped, washed out walls… I can run my fingers on the old paint chips that incarnate the impasto on the canvas, the cleverest proof of long lived experiences and the passing of time. The oxide red terracotta roofs intoxicated with burnt sienna reflecting the beatings of stormy weather and crackling from the scorching August sun. I can see inside the windows; the living room overlooking the vineyards, a huge barren space I will fill with old pastoral furniture from some small shop in town. Each corner of this villa will reflect my love of being. My bedroom is the largest of all rooms… a small round dinning table in the middle to cater to our midnight snacks or to hold the many bouquets of wild flowers that will beautify the quarters, and enrich my life. My bed is perfect, like the one my mother was born in, more than ninety years ago. The solid brass headboard and the footboard carved in wood make beautiful resonance of the many happy couples who have shed their love since decades ago. 

The view from every angle is breathtaking and I am abducted continuously to the patio, the cosiest place in the manor, a chunk of heaven in my yard. The scent of flowers is intoxicating, like the night my mother died and my office filled with the aroma of a million flowers, as she said goodbye. An old twisted iron bistro table and six chairs are sumptuously glamorized by a pergola where dwell the most amazing array of flora, adding a touch of heaven to this already paradisiacal place. Warm vino is served at sunset, Jeny and I will sit to observe the day consumed in explosions of oranges and reds as we sip away Masi Rosso and I scribble the outline of what domani I shall write.

“Italy sounds like an old typewriter in the olden Angelica library,

it has the aroma of old leather bound books and freshly brewed coffee…

(an agreeable scent, not mossy),

La Fontana de Trevi emanates of clean air, history and people,

 many people.

You can sense and smell everybody who has been there”.

A gentle pat on the shoulder prompts me as I collect my thoughts.

-“Patty, It’s time to go in the house, the painting is done”. – Jeny whispers to my ear.

We protect our bodies with winter attire and prepare to hike those eternal thirty footsteps back home. Lights off in the studio, door locked. The cold wind is more piercing, the silence is more daunting, the darkness is gloomier and the trail to the house seems a worse ordeal to endure. However, the weatherman reported that tomorrow would not be as bad. Another painting, a new story, a dream left behind. I enter the house overwhelmed with melancholy. “Oh! Italy, what a marvellous place!” – I proclaim.

-“Mom, where will it be tomorrow?” Kenny asks.

-“Firenze domani? Domani, perhaps.

This is the painting that Joe painted specifically to illustrate my story. The scenery is exactly as I described it.

Our home in Edmonton for 3 years. The painting studio was at the very back of the pathway. It is summer and I am wearing a jacket!

= = == = = = == = = = == = == = ==

The Edmonton Sun Newspaper article regarding that day!!!

http://www.edmontonsun.com/news/edmonton/2009/12/13/12141366.html

Edmonton was the coldest place in North America yesterday morning and the second chilliest in the world.

The Edmonton International Airport saw a record low of -46.1 C and -58.4 C with the windchill, outfreezing even the Arctic.

“The cold high pressure has been moving down from the Arctic over the Prairies,” said Environment Canada meteorologist John McIntyre, adding British Columbia and Saskatchewan also experienced plummeting temperatures. “We are right now in the centre of the heaviest, coldest air.”

Only Dzalinda, Siberia, appeared to be colder, with a weather station there recording temperatures of -48 C.

But the coldest day ever recorded in Edmonton remains unbeaten at -48.3 C with a windchill of -61 C on Jan. 26, 1972.

Yesterday’s frigid temperatures broke the previous record for Dec. 13, which was -36.1 C set in 2008, as well as the record for the coldest day in December, a low of -44.5 C set on Dec. 9, 1977. Cold Lake, Grande Prairie and Whitecourt also had record lows yesterday.

Patricia López de Vloothuis

 Dedicated to all my elephant friends in captivity, to Lucy from Edmonton.

 This is LUCY. She lives in the Edmonton Zoo.

Le Cirque is in Town

It’s 1916,  Kingsport, Tennessee

Allez! Allez! Quelle Bonne Chance!

Le Cirque is in town!

Nothing too fancy, just a dog, pony and elephant show.

Amidst all this joy,

explain to Murielle the madness of man.

The news of the day,

Eldridge, brutally killed by Mary,

a female in distress.

Was hit and yanked by a keeper,

her ears being the softest of spots…

grabbed the man by the waist and threw him afar,

stepped on his head, till it became flat.

- Assassin! Murderer! Justice for man!

The mob bellowed in frantic duress.

They claim she’s done it before, but it’s all a lie

This is what happens, when ignorant men spread hatred around.

And so the conspiracy starts…

Murielle is aghast, she can’t understand…

A jury of 12 and the lawmen coincide

death by hanging … the righteous punishment for such a crime.

And so they proceed against all possible logic,

- Hang him till dead! Justice will prevail!

They don’t even know that “him” is a “her”.

An inconvenient factor must be overcome,

The killer’s size is enormous, and its weight in the tons

So the town goes to work, dusting their thinking caps

a good citizen of Kingsport unravels the snag…

40 miles away, In North Carolina,

Erwin, the name of the town…

A mayor rail yard for freight trains of mass

houses a crane to suit such an explicit task.

The beast must now walk 40 miles to her death,

The crowd, nonetheless, travelled by train,

A hanging was on, justice shall prevail.

And so one mid morning in Erwin,

an elephant dangled from atop a crane

(10,000) ten thousand pounds break the chain…

She falls to the ground, breaking her apart.

They made a mistake, she’s still chained to the rails,

Mary looks stunned but by now paralysed. 

Her legs split open and her hip broken…

While the public elopes, terrified for their lives,

the hangman recaps,

a thicker chain round her neck is now being wrapped

This time a success, three thousand people below,  

hysterically laugh  as the beast slowly hangs to her death…

September 13, 1916, Mary, rests in peace.

-T´was the day of the greatest deal ever,   -reported the crowd

-cuzz to witness the hanging, no extra fee was charged

Sad, such sadness as the crowd cheered on… 

- and justice for all…

Murielle’s  horrified: Tonton! Cher oncle!

why are all the other elephants here?

Domage, cést domage, quelle tout le monde est trés bête.

She can’t comprehend what she’s doing there…

La pitié, tant de pitié, le monde est si folle.

And so the big lawman in town takes the floor:

“Let this be a lesson for all beasts to witness,

 that in the good town of Erwin,

Justice for Kingsport was done”                                                                                   

 It started one day in a town near Virginia,

 Allez! Allez! Quelle Bonne Chance!

Le Cirque is in town!

… Explain to Murielle the madness of man!

Almost a century later… explain it to me

… the madness of man.

Erwin is blamed with the fact,

It’s name has a terrible rap.

But it doesn’t stop there,

some locals recall “two Negro keepers” being hung alongside Mary,

her corpse being burned on a pile of crossties,

Painful reminder of a latter day,

Same year a “NEGRO” was hanged,

Falsely accused of abducting a girl

from the opposite side of the tracks…

His corpse also burned on a pile of crossties.

The murder of an elephant: a spectacle; they alleged.

The murder of “a Negro”: a greater spectacle, they said.

Oh Erwin… Oh Erwin… … Explain to Murielle the madness of man!

This is an actual picture of MARY being hanged. She was first broken apart, her hip bones shattered, then hanged. The madness of man!!!

TENGO LA EDAD QUE QUIERO

¡Tengo la edad que quiero y siento!

La edad en que puedo: Gritar sin miedo lo que pienso…
Hacer lo que deseo, sin miedo al fracaso, o lo desconocido. ..
Pues tengo la experiencia de los años vividos

y la fuerza de la convicción de mis deseos.
¡Qué importa cuantos años tengo!

¡No quiero pensar en ello!
Pues unos dicen que ya soy viejo,

“y otras que estoy en el apogeo”.
Pero no es la edad que tengo,

ni lo que la gente dice,

sino lo que mi corazón siente

y mi cerebro dicte.

Tengo los años necesarios
para gritar lo que pienso,
para hacer lo que quiero,
para reconocer yerros viejos,
rectificar caminos y atesorar éxitos.

Ahora no tienen porque decir:
¡Estás muy joven, no lo lograrás!
¡Estas muy viejo, ya no podrás!
Tengo la edad en que las cosas

se miran con mas calma,

pero con el interés de seguir creciendo.

Tengo los años en que los sueños,

se empiezan a acariciar con los dedos,

las ilusiones, se convierten en esperanza.

Tengo los años en que el amor,
a veces es una loca llamarada,
ansiosa de consumirse en el fuego

de una pasión deseada.
Y otras es un remanso de paz,

como el atardecer en la playa.
¿Qué cuantos años tengo?
No necesito con un número marcar,

pues mis anhelos alcanzados,

mis triunfos obtenidos,

las lágrimas que por el camino derramé

al ver mis ilusiones truncadas…
¡Valen mucho más que eso!

¡Qué importa si cumplo cuarenta ,

cincuenta o mas!
Pues lo que importa:
¡Es la edad que siento!

Tengo los años que necesito para vivir libre y sin miedos.
Para seguir sin temor por el sendero,

pues llevo conmigo la experiencia adquirida

 y la fuerza de mis anhelos.

¿Qué cuantos años tengo?

¡Eso a quien le importa!
Tengo los años necesarios para perder el miedo

 y hacer lo que quiero y siento.

 And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
meet — and the junction be Eternity?     E. Dickinson

 My ESL class was abruptly interrupted in the middle of a substitution drill; a supervisor burst into my classroom and sombrely sent me to the office declaring to my students that he would be taking over for the day. This only happened in emergencies. Everyone in the office wore an empathetic grimace as they stared at the receiver on the Director’s desk. 

-“Your father is on the phone”. The secretary muttered. I hesitated for a minute before picking it up, but I had been hinted on an ongoing illness threatening the life of my cousin, so in a sense I was ready for this, or so I thought.

-“Piñón is dead”, he said – plainly and bluntly. Little did I know that with those three words, Pandora’s Box had been opened and my life would never be the same thereafter.

Píñón was my cousin’s pet name- pine nut, because when he was born, my mom mentioned that his skin was rosy like a pine nut. He was 25 years old, this was my first truly shocking experience with death. Older people died, that is natural, but death had penetrated my generation and the first hand knowledge of my vulnerability scared me terribly. He was only five years older than me. I was deeply disturbed and fell into a deep depression since I had been granted unsolicited acquaintance with my own mortality and was not prepared to deal with these feelings.

Piñón´s wake was held at his home. This was a new experience to me, in my short lifetime I had had my share of eclectic funerals, but this one was truly a cultural example. Holding a wake in a home is beyond eerie, never again have I walked through that door into the living room and not envisioned his casket there, in the middle of the room, right where the coffee table now rests, almost 30 years after.

The living room was filled with strangers, some ate tamales, others drank champurrado, they all ate or drank and kept silence. The house smelled like a FONDA, all scents of Mexican comfort food filled the air. I was appalled and confused. Who would think about eating at a time like this? It was as uncanny as a coroner eating a sandwich while performing an autopsy. Piñón had died of hepatitis and an open casket was denied. Those who wanted to say their last goodbyes to my cousin, leaned over a sealed glass above his face and spoke softly or just wept, my dad and his brothers even kissed the glass. I was physically unable to get close to the casket, I was horrified, petrified.

Food kept coming in the kitchen, every mourner brought something to eat in big canisters which smelled delicious… deliciously nauseating, due to the circumstances. My aunt Conchita, Piñon´s mom, stood diligently by the stove stirring the hot chocolate, and making pots of traditional coffee with cinnamon and molasses.  My uncle had died the year before and his ashes still rested inside Piñon´s closet in the bedroom he shared with his brother Pepe.

-“Your uncle´s ashes have not been disposed of yet and now Piñón… what am I going to do now? How many loved ones must I lose before I depart?” – She mumbled desolately as her tears rolled down her cheeks and into the big pot of chocolate which she kept stirring assiduously. This was an eerie piece of information I would’ve rather not known, but for some unknown reason, I was peculiarly mesmerized by this death. I needed to know more to make it factual. I had to see, know, smell, taste and feel it all to make it real. I followed Pepe to his bedroom, asked him to show me Piñon´s closet; my uncle’s ashes, more specifically. There was no urn, just a small cardboard box and inside, a clear plastic bag lodging those ashes. I was disgusted, surely MY ashes deserved a nice urn, why not his?  My father walked in and with no second thought to his actions, grabbed the box, put his hand inside the bag and scooped out some ashes.

-“Look, they did a horrible job, lots of small bones, it should be all ashes, hopefully the oven will be working well when Piñón goes in”, he said unsympathetically and left the room.

As he walked away, I saw how he wiped his hand back and forth on his shirt to clean any residue of ashes. I was shocked and disgusted, my stomach turned and I ended up in the bathroom. Lenny was right, I cannot handle death.  I excused myself with my aunt and went home to cry my eyes out, this was so unexpected, so surprising, so mind bobbling. Next day I accompanied my family to the crematorium. This was my biggest mistake ever.  A crematorium in a third world country – that is, the first public crematorium in the city in the late seventies, was the finest example of barbarity. Funeral parties lined up awaiting their turn to surrender the casket of their loved one to some unimpressionable youngsters who snacked, smoked and carried on with their menial conversation aloud, interrupting the tragedy that surrounded the rest. The crematorium was adapted in a building that used to be a paper factory. The entrance to the smouldering oven was in full view of all of us. As we approached the “entrance”, we could see other caskets being opened, the bodies taken out, stripped in full view of the mourners and thrown inside the yellowish flames inside. Two guys were in charge of this while a third one swept ashes from the bottom of the oven towards him, he then picked them from the floor and put them on an oversized industrial metal dust bin. You could see half skulls, sternums and femurs still not fully disintegrated inside that oven. Whose bones were those? He lined up the dust bins and wrote a last name on a piece of paper by the bin, this is how he knew whose ashes were whose once they cooled down enough to be placed in plastic bags. The radio played folk music, music proper to parties from those belonging to a lower social class. We all had to listen to their distasteful music. And while this was carried on the ground, the air filled with the stench of burning human flesh and the skies wore a black dusty ribbon that spread where the winds desired to take it. The old industrial pipe that once polluted the city with residues of the makings of paper, now spewed particles of human flesh unto the land that once saw all those people being born.

The line moved slowly. Finally, It was our turn. I stood assiduously next to my cousin’s casket awaiting for him to meet his fate. As the casket was being opened, my father pulled me aside and held me tightly by the arms, hurriedly leading me away from this scenario. I kept turning around, I needed to see. For some unknown morbid and obscene reason, I needed to see, to smell, to touch, to hear… to make it real. This was such a surreal situation, I was stripped of all emotions, I was numb, it was like being out of my body observing the holocaust. My father kept hauling me away from the pandemonium, but I was drawn to it like a magnet, I felt I needed to be there. We both sat on the grass by the parking lot; I could only distinguish the big pipe at the distance. The stench was distinctive. That smoke carried my cousin’s remains, that ribbon on the sky wore his name, I knew that smell was of his flesh, I knew that his ashes would accompany those already scattered on the grounds around us, ashes that lost momentum when the winds died down and lied flat on the surroundings.

-“Goodbye Piñón, sorry I did not get to know you better, sorry you were shun because of your disabilities and inadequacies. Sorry that you lived in a time when not many opportunities existed for you. Thank you for loving my father as your own, and waiting for him to be by your side, to die in peace. Goodbye.” – I garbled to myself while looking at the sky.

An hour later my father approached the “entrance” and picked up my cousin´s ashes. The kid in charge emptied the contents of the dustbin that carried his name inside a plastic bag, and gave my father a box to put them in. My dad closed the box and we all went home with a warm box filled with a mixture of ashes of many people before him whose bones had not yet been disintegrated by the time another body was thrown in. I looked at the people behind us, they too would carry my cousin’s ashes in their boxes, mixed with those of their loved one.

-“What is the sense of all this?” – I thought to myself. –“Whose ashes will we be spreading anyway? What is the sense of all this?”

For the first time in my life, I knew death was forever and it crept unexpectedly at any age. I felt threatened. I felt lost. I went home and hugged my kids tightly and forever.

I could not let go of them, ever, never.

 To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?                              

                                       E. Dickinson

My most important in-law died without even knowing of my existence, or that of his first grandchild. I first met both my in-laws the day Josh died, not an ideal scenario, but we were summoned urgently half the country away because Josh had taken a turn for the worst and was not believed to make it another full day. We figured it was not the ideal moment to brief them on details that would certainly upset the situation more, besides, Josh had been coming in and out of consciousness for the past couple of days. Joe, Leo and I took the red eye and arrived at dawn. There was confusion in the house as we arrived from the airport; lots of commotion and a sense of loss filled the air, the very stuffy and stifling air in that huge dream house that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. As we dropped our bags in the hallway, our intuition told us we were too late, but held hope that we would still share a word with him before he died. We later learned that as we entered the house, he took his last breath. In a sense, he kept his promise of waiting for his kids to arrive.

Albert, the eldest of the three, the only son who lived with my in-laws, kept walking in circles before us, like a headless chicken. He looked distressed, disoriented and confused. To add to this mayhem, a dishevelled woman came out of nowhere.

- “This must be Lenny”, I thought to myself. Without any formal introduction, or knowledge of who I was, she yanked me from my wrist and hurriedly took me inside the bedroom where Josh lied dead. Before me, a most nauseating sight, a man had wilted away consumed by Cancer, bed sores, emaciation, and the consequence of shooting up morphine for months. He was only fifty four but looked a hundred years old. His skin looked like yellow papyrus that clung tightly to the bones, like a mummy. He might’ve taken his last breath upon our arrival, but in true honesty, it was evident he had stopped living long before that.

The room smelled badly, a stench only similar to that of abandonment and neglect, of being forsaken by God. I stopped breathing through my nose and put both my hands over my face to block the smell. Lenny jerked me closer to him, opened his eyelids with one hand and put the other on my back to push my body forward so I could see that Joe was the only son to inherit his green eyes. She then turned him over, weightless like a leaf, for me to see the putrid open sores on his back -full spinal chord in view. I felt my breath abandon me and the room started spinning, I must’ve fainted. When I came to, I overheard Lenny telling Joe that I was a weakling.

-“she has no stomach to be here, and who the hell is she by the way, your girlfriend? Why did you bring her here? She can’t handle death” – she expressed emphatically. I never heard Joe’s answer.

As I walked towards the voices in the living room, Lenny swept me from head to toe and then asked me to help fill out the death certificate and translate legal documents from English and Dutch, to Spanish. I didn’t speak Dutch but with logic and common sense, I figured out what was what and where it belonged.

-“You look like a smart girl, you’ll figure it out. The funeral people should be here shortly, they’re Mexicans like you, so you deal with them” – she commanded as she walked away to her bedroom.

While I stared at the rusted old typewriter, trying to make sense of the past hour,  Lenny braided her long blonde hair, spread some rouge on her cheeks, sprayed some perfume on her neck, changed into her black Bikini and off she went to the beach to mourn her husband by herself. After years of constantly caring for this sick man, she was finally experiencing liberation and she needed to be alone, with herself, with her thoughts.  You could palpably see this woman shed the weight of his illness with every step she took on that deserted beach on a cool early morning in March 1978.

My main idea for me being there was to help her out emotionally in this hard time, it turned out this woman had an igneous heart and an alabaster soul, the by-product of surviving the war, or maybe the reason why she did.  I then realised that my presence was obsolete and would only aggravate her in the long run.

From the terrace I could spot the black bikini in the distance as I sought help with crucial medical information not accessible to me on the papers before me. However, Lenny was unavailable, she walked the Manzanillo Bay back and forth, from end to end, tirelessly, not minding my request for help and ignoring me completely as she walked in front of the house. It was obvious that she considered my presence surprising, intrusive and offensive – to say the least.

Joe’s parents suspected that he had a steady girlfriend but they did not approve of me, or of anyone else for that matter; now I was introduced as his wife and upon seeing my stretch marks when they lifted me off the floor, lied me on a bed and removed my sweater, it had to be mentioned that our one year old son had stayed behind under my mother’s care.

She felt so insulted, she was fuming.

-“How could you do this to me today? She should’ve stayed home where she belongs, she’s not one of us”. She yelled in anger as she stormed out to the beach in front of the house.

-“Nice to meet you too”, I said to myself. And so I sat alone in the living room for hours, a dead man lied a few feet away from me and I could not be anything but perplexed and sympathetic at the nonchalant reaction of this man’s immediate family. The three sons were also nowhere to be found, they had been at the tennis courts while his father’s body was being hauled from the bedroom to the Hearst. Nobody cared to know where Josh’s grave was.

-“Someone please tell them that death is forever, and what they do today, will never be erased” – I pleaded to no avail to whatever higher power heard me.

 -“It´s  just a physical body, it will rot and merge in the soil, we shall see him again, the real Josh is forever gone and does not dwell in that rotting shell”. They kept telling me as I cried oceans amidst amazement and disbelief. Nobody saw him being buried. There was no funeral, no service, no food, nobody spoke about who he was, what he did, his legacy… No musicians played a sombre tune to alert the world of the loss of a fellow human. There were no tears aside from mine and I am not so sure I cried the loss of his life, but the unfairness and awkwardness of the events that day. Nobody deserves to die that way; there should at least be one mourner when a casket is lowered into the ground, one person who truly feels that the death of this individual is actually a loss to the world. But there wasn’t.

For the longest time, everyone would complain that his presence was never seen in any of the family pictures they had, seems like Lenny was always doing something with them, but not Josh. One lazy day, not so long ago, we visited his brother and coincidentally; he was doing some spring cleaning. A box containing childhood pictures came to our attention.

-“See? The old man never shared anything with us, it was my mom who made the family life, not him.” – Leo grunted in disappointment as he tossed the picture towards Joe, who agreed.

-“Yeap, we were obsolete in his life, he never gave a shit about us, if it hadn’t been for Lenny, we would’ve been completely neglected” – Joe attested.

Curiosity took the best of me and I grabbed the box of memorabilia. I first saw a picture of Lenny and the kids on a sailboat in Grand River, where they parked their camper for the summer so the kids could enjoy water sports. Next picture was by the Christmas tree, a tree so filled with presents that you could hardly see its shape in the background. Joe was sitting next to a big TV set.

-“We had the largest sailboat on the river, see? And here, that’s our brand new colour TV, we were the first ones in Ancaster to have a colour TV, and we had two, one in the basement and another in Lenny´s bedroom! All the kids wanted to come home and watch cartoons in colour, we were popular!” – Joe was proud of those moments etched in photographic paper.

Upon careful observation of all the pictures in the box, on the bottom left corner I spotted a shadow. It was the silhouette of a man wearing a Fedora and extending his elbow outwards like holding a camera to take a picture, seen from behind. It was Josh! Josh was in almost every picture they cherished so much, his hat, his elbow, his shoe, his car, his briefcase… his presence in every picture he took of his family at play. These men condemned their father’s absence, but if it hadn’t been for him working so hard to provide all the luxuries and all the toys, and the hours he spent driving home for lunch everyday, those pictures would not exist at all.

The biggest disadvantage in his life… someone had to take the pictures and film the movies! Nowadays, nobody even thinks about him at all, and the unfairness towards him still haunts me.

The penetrating smell of incense and moss overwhelmed the scent of hundreds of flowers in the chapel. I was dressed in full Sunday best despite being the middle of the week. The white lace gloves were particularly a nuisance since I could not properly remove my bangs from my forehead. I hated hair on my face but my mom thought I looked like a doll. I heard violins being tuned up in the background and noticed many musicians dressed in black. Otherwise, the chapel was almost empty, we were early, I suppose.

I never really knew who Sabaas was, or how he fit in my life, but today I was attending his funeral. At five, little did I know about life, even less about death. I momentaneously strayed away from my mother’s grip while she was consoling the widow and walked towards the front of the chapel to find a group of pallbearers leaning over an open wooden casket on the floor. Nobody seemed to notice me. I stood next to them and stared down at the face of a dead man, I was in awe. As the mass progressed, the music of  “El Mariachi Vargas”, the most prestigious and famous Mariachi in Mexico, played heartfelt tunes to set a morose mood. This was a true privilege since they played mostly for statesmen, big concert halls and toured abroad, but the widow was a dear friend of the founder of the band. The women cried as the violins wept,  and the men spoke about the untimely death of this great man who had become a success story.

After the ceremony we all went home. As my father concentrated on driving, my mom kept venting her anger at a couple of men who got too chummy and were overly accommodating with the gorgeous widow. My dad smiled and placed a verbal bet on who he thought would end up getting her:

- “Don Silvestre Vargas, he will get her”- he stated.

Don Silvestre was the owner and main violinist in the infamous Mariachi group. My mother stared at him in terror and sighed in disgust. I was too young and naïve to be shocked by the conversation or the sight of a dead man, it was mainly curiosity at its best that filled my spirit. I had no notion that death meant separation forever.

A couple of years later, the penetrating smell of incense and moss still overwhelmed the scent of hundreds of flowers in the same chapel. I was again dressed in full Sunday best, but this time, it was indeed Sunday night. The white lace gloves were particularly a nuisance once more since I could not properly avoid my bangs from prickling at my eyeballs and now, they were also too small and did not fit properly on my outgrown podgy hands. She knew I hated bangs but my mom insisted they made me look sooooo beautiful (sigh!).  Once again the “Mariachi Vargas” band rehearsed in full formal garb, fine white suits embroidered with silver thread and buttons made of mother of pearl. It was joyous music this time, the tone had been set, and a merry celebration was at hand. The chapel was almost empty, we were early, I know, but I had to practise my graceful march to the altar in front of the bride. I was a flower girl; it was the wedding of Sabaas´s widow and Silvestre Vargas. 

My dad had won the bet.

Papá,

Hoy falleciste por la mañana y vivo atormentada con el remordimiento de que por esperar a juntar a alguno de mis hijos para hablarte, ya no te hablé anoche. Hubiera sido nuestro último adiós, pero por lo que hoy sé, desde anoche ya no me hubieras escuchado. Siento tanto tu partida padre mío, siento más el no haber estado a tu lado, pero ya sabes, nosotros realmente nunca estuvimos juntos en las malas, esas siempre nos las enjuagábamos a solas,  cada quien en su casa – las buenas, ésas sí las celebrábamos juntos. 

Hoy mi tronco ha perdido toda raíz y solo son las ramas enormes que han crecido a lo largo de la vida que he formado, las que me sostienen en pie. Hoy soy huérfana, completamente huérfana y siento un vacío enorme al saberte por siempre ausente. Hoy me siento desprotegida. Siempre pensé que tú me defenderías de todos y de cualquier mal y que lucharías por mí hasta morir. La vida me dio la oportunidad de saber que he sido soñadora hasta en esto. Me enseñaste a defenderme, me diste las armas para luchar y cuando los dragones me atacaron, te hiciste a un lado para que yo sola los venciera. Me hiciste fuerte e invencible y por esa dureza tuya, te agradezco mi madurez.

Como padre fuiste un excelente proveedor, nadie lo dudará. Como esposo, te falto aprender mucho, pero creo que al morir mi madre y estar tu solo, hubieron múltiples enseñanzas que hoy te llevas con Dios.

Viviste una vida privilegiada, probaste los sabores de la cornucopia y la decepción de la indiferencia y conociste en más de una ocasión, el tufo agrio de la gente mal agradecida. Dedicaste tu vida a ayudar cuando tuviste y hasta cuando en tu vida hubo carencias, siempre pensabas en los demás.

Te agradezco enormemente lo que has hecho por mí, por brindarme la educación que hoy me ha cimentado en el sitio donde estoy. Gracias por darme un hogar digno, un techo lujoso y por no permitir que en ninguna etapa de mi vida, sufriera de carencias.

Gracias por querer a mis hijos, por consentir a tantos cambios en mi vida, por seguirme a donde haya yo ido y por pensar en mi.

Gracias, porque hasta hace unos años, únicamente hablabas maravillas de mi y lo hacías a gritos sin importar quien te escuchara. En esos tiempos me sentía yo infalible, enorme, magnánima… dichosa mujer.

Gracias porque tu hogar siempre estuvo accesible, y tus brazos abiertos. Gracias por enseñarme que en tu casa son tus reglas y que tu eras el Rey, porque así yo supe imponer las mías en mi hogar, y la corona de Reina me cayo de maravilla.

Gracias por los viajes, las joyas, mi primera casa, mis Cuncuncas y mi educación.

Gracias por haberme dado tu apellido y por permitir que con mi presencia, mi madre tuviera compañía y fuera tan feliz.

Gracias por decirme siempre que mis hijos y yo éramos lo más importante y lo único que tenías en esta vida. Gracias por querernos.

Hoy pasas a un mejor sitio, uno libre de dolor y limitaciones. Hoy no solo vuelves a caminar, esta noche volarás. 

Cuando veas a mi madre dile que la quiero y que la extraño enormidades, que aun lloro su partida y que nunca la hemos de olvidar. Cuando veas a mis compadres, diles cuanto los quise y cuanto añoro esas noches de tertulia interminable que hubimos de pasar.

Te extrañaremos mucho, al igual que a mi madre.

Si te hice algún daño, perdóname. Si te sentiste ofendido por mi, perdóname. Si alguna acción mía te causo angustia o dolor, perdóname, pero entiéndeme que ante todo, yo siempre te protegí – como tu a mí. Yo también tratare de olvidar todos los tropiezos que tuvimos.

Hoy se queda en mi escritorio el contenido de un paquete que te íbamos a enviar. Unas fotos de Johnna y su novia, un periódico donde se me hizo una entrevista, una gorra  porque veo en las fotos que siempre traes la misma, otras fotos más de Chris con su perra  y sus gatos y hasta una foto de la casa nueva del Chef.  Todo esto, se quedó sin ser enviado.

Es difícil para mi saber que esa casona de campo ya jamás será habitada por ti. Es difícil emprender la tarea de disponer de todas esas cosas que hay en tu vida y con dignidad escoger lo que podremos guardar y lo que se ir á a caridad.

El día de hoy, qué tarea tan difícil es ser tu hija.

Hoy falleciste por la mañana y pasarán los días y no te dejare de llorar.

Te quiero.

Cuncunca.