Death.
It leaves me exactly where I am. Sitting in my room, staring at my wall, trying to think of something profound to say about someone who had nothing short of a profound effect on my life.
How is it that I have nothing to say?
It seems like nothing is good enough. No words encompass or begin to do any amount of service. It makes me mad that I can't explain her. Every time I write a word it feels like it's nothing. Even worse than nothing, it feels like it takes away from the memory of her that exists in my mind.
5 feet tall. 100 years old. Born and raised in Mexico City. Educated in France. A mother. A wife. A grandmother. A lover. A fighter. A listener. A dancer. An actress. A doctor (that's what she said she would have been if she had it to to over-- she told me). A spanish speaker. A truth teller. A story teller. A friend.
Larger than life she was. The only grandmother I ever knew. Her hands and hair immaculately kept. High heels. Even her bedroom slippers. Colors. Nude paintings and drawings. Grace and Humor.
'Da me un beso.' That's what she would tell her children and grandchildren every time she saw them. That's spanish for 'Give me a kiss.' Who knows exactly when or where the transition happened, but the word 'beso' grew a capital letter, lost an 's', grew a 't' and became a name. Bayto. Kiss. Love. That was her.
She was friends with the squirrel and the bird who visited her stoop. And the thugs who knocked at her door begging to buy her lowrider. And the Orthodox Jews who were her neighbors. And the waitors at the Acapulco restaurant (her favorite) who reminded her of home.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Left my wife and forty eight kids in a starving condition without any gingerbread, did I do Right? Right. Right. Right by my country, by jingle, I had a good job when I left. I left. I left.
You left, but you're not gone. I love you Bayto.
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