There are a plethora of songs and poetry and of stories written about heartbreak. I have had my share, but there are some that still break my heart that are still etched in my memory.
These words hurt so badly because I knew at the time that they were true.
These pierced my heart, and I thought I might die. If you know, if you’ve loved like I’ve loved, you know how bad it feels to lose someone.
As we lay beside one another, he said softly…
“I don’t love you anymore. I know how much you love me. I love her like you love me.”
Why did he have to say those words? It would have been easier if he had just left. It would have been easier not to have heard them.
Some words we can never forget.
Why did these words come to me today? Like any kind of grief, it washes over you like the waves of the sea, and you have no control over your heart and how they make you feel. It was a song that brought them back.
Today I had an injury that required bandaging. I went to get Mom’s first aid kit, even though all that’s left are various bandages and tape, but…
The most treasured of all is her bandage scissors. These date back to her nursing days, perhaps sometime in the 1940s. They were used all through her nursing career and our childhood and now, up to today.
When she passed in 2010, the first aid kit became mine. These scissors are nearly 80 years old and they are as sharp and useful as they ever were.
They remind me of my mom’s hands. They were always ultra clean and soft as a baby’s bottom. With those hands she scrubbed our scrapes and cuts without mercy. Then she would bandage us up with such love that we soon quit our crying.
Always present were Mom’s bandage scissors whenever needed. Today I was thankful for them once again. I’m sure they’ll endure another 100 years.
She asked me if I was wearing silver or gold. My answer was silver. Her response was, “then go”.
Her accent was foreign to me. She was probably nearing 70 years old. She wore a form fitting swim suit and lay on a lush towel on the white sand. She was beautiful. Her hair was full and dark and streaked with sun bleached strands. I laid not far from her on a cheap hotel towel.
A tall and lanky young man in a tight red speedo, that left not much to the imagination, stood towering over me. He was dark brown and muscular. His life on the beach made him appear darker than the skin peeking out from under his suit.
I had met several of what I called “the boys on the beach”. Because I am naturally curious and an ethnographer, I had spoken with many of them and had even befriended a couple.
They made their livelihood by providing services to the tourists on the beach. Some worked giving rides on jet skis and inflatable bananas. Some drove boats for para-gliding. Most of those that I met had started quite young… 13 – 14 years old even.
If they were lucky they would meet women who would then take them out to dinners, buy them clothes and would even give them money.
I had watched these scenarios on the beaches in Mexico many times. One might see older women out in the clubs at night dancing, escorted by these young men. Some might even call them gigalos. Everyone benefited.
So, here was Gilberto, offering to take me out on his paddle board, out to the La Isla de Roqueta. He had cold beer in the compatment on his board, he added, hoping to convince me. I was reluctant. Even though he was a cousin to one of the men I had gotten to know, I didn’t know him except by sight.
He was trying convincingly to encourage me to go with him to where only the locals would know. He knew of a cove with white sand, he said, where there was every color of irridescent fish and beautiful coral and unusual rock formations. But I have no money, I said, hoping to discourage him.
I was equivocating even though I knew him slightly and I was used to seeing him everyday on the beach taking others out into the bay to the Isla. Tired of our discussion, it was then that the woman lying near me stepped in with her question, “Are you wearing silver or gold”?
I told her that I was wearing only silver. She then, with an air of authority said, “Then go”. I felt like my mother had just told me that I could go ahead and go on a date with that boy on the motorcycle.
I gathered up my towel and climbed onto his long board. Gilberto stood on the front of the board with a paddle, looking not unlike a statue of Adonis. I relaxed as he handed me a beer from his cooler. This wasn’t the first time I had accepted an invitation to do something a little adventurous, to some maybe, dangerous
He was practiced and proficient as we glided past the submerged statue of Nuestra Señora de Los Mares or better known as La VirgenGuadelupe.
This statue is not very deeply submerged and is a popular tourist attraction, often visited by the glass bottomed boats that transport tourists and locals alike, between the beaches and the island. She’s located in the Bay of Acapulco off the coast of La Isla Roqueta. Though beloved, it seemed really creepy to me.
Nuestra Señorade Los Maresorthe Virgen de Guadelupe
By the time we were out into the bay and gliding and rocking along, I was so glad that I overcame my trepidation and went along. I was so glad that the lady lying beside me on the beach had encouraged me to go. Then, as now, I’m glad I did not miss this experience.
As we drew near the dock where the boats landed and let people off to visit the restaurant on the island, we took a turn to the right and circled the island staying near the shore. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the water splashing over the board was refreshing.
It wasn’t long and Gilberto guided us into a small and hidden cove with a white Sandy beach. The smooth and glistening rocks at the water’s edge were every color and shone in the sun through the translucent blue, green water. Gilberto unloaded the cooler with the beer and a few snacks onto the beach.
Cove on the Isla Roqueta
For a short while I laid on the beach and drank another beer. Gilberto encouraged me to move into the water and I laid and floated on the gently sloping beach. As my eyes adjusted to looking under the water, I saw schools of beautiful small fish, iridescent in the sun and shining in every color. Gilberto moved in and lay beside me. I lost track of time.
For a minute I thought Gilberto would try to make a move. He did but as I moved a little away from him, he did not persist. I didn’t blame him for trying, as this is how he made his living. He was possibly hoping that I would be one of those women who would spend their vacation taking him out to dinners buying him clothes and spending money on him.
We talked softly, drank more beer and rocked in the water until the sun sank into the horizon. It was time for us to reluctanty return to la playa Caleta. The air was still warm as stars began to appear in the sky. This had been a magical day.
I jumped off the board just short of shore and walked through the gentle waves onto the warm sand. I laid my towel out and sat down, exhausted from the day in the sun and sea. Gilberto sat next to me. I asked him what I owed him. He wouldn’t take my money. No matter how much I insisted he refused to take even one peso.
I wanted to at least pay for the beer. I wanted at least to pay him for his time. I knew that if he hadn’t spent the day with me, he would have made money doing what he does best, which is to entertain the tourists.
Instead, Gilberto and I had become friends. Maybe this was worth more than silver and gold to him. I know it was to me.
This is a hand woven pillow top completed in 1973. That’s 50 years ago! It’s made of 100% rustic wool on a large floor loom while taking classes at the Multnomah Art Center. I cannot remember what breed of wool or the pattern but it was a marvelous experience. It changed my life.
I bought several looms over the years and enjoyed weaving. I learned to spin, as well. Recently, I sold all my weaving and spinning supplies.
It took years to admit that I would not ever weave again, so I kept my equipment and supplies far too long. Thanks to my mom and dad’s persistant support, I have always been proud that I never let anything stop me from doing whatever I’ve chosen to do regardless of… well, there came a time that I had to give up on this craft and many others.
I have little to show for this time in my life with the exception of a few pieces, including this one. Though it is the worse for wear, I will sew it into a pillow cover again. It makes me nostalgic for those beautiful years.
Mom and I had moved 3 times between the years 2002 and 2010.
Our first move was moving her out of senior housing into a house with me. She was 81 and in good health but not eating as well as she should (too many Hungryman dinners) and it was getting harder for her to clean the floors.
I had just returned from Santa Monica, California to take up a permanent position. It was perfect timing for Mom to live with me. However, this wasn’t the first time, as she had lived with me, my husband and children for a decade already.
But changes in our lives had necessitated Mom moving into senior housing for a time. Jack and I moved into a tiny duplex on our own while our children transitioned out of the house.
As soon as I moved from California back to Oregon, I moved Mom in with me. In the first house that we moved into, we had abundant gardens, which we took full advantage of. We spent every day that wasn’t stormy or too cold, out in the yard. Mom had been skillfully using a walker for a few years at this point, and managed quite easily.
However, there were steps going up to the path to the front steps of the porch. There were steps going down from the back door into the back garden. There were steps going down into the basement. Mom loved to do the laundry and so it was necessary for her to descend those dark stairs. I soon decided that I would take over the laundry chores. I couldn’t though deny Mom the privilege of going in and out of the house at will, though it was a constant worry.
It was in this house that Mom saw me through surgery and eight months of chemotherapy. She took over all of the household chores and my care. I was supposed to die but I didn’t. We lived on together.
Five years later we moved into a beautiful little 3 bedroom ranch and again, with large gardens and beautiful plantings front and back. Thankfully, this had absolutely no stairs for her to climb or descend. But, in two years it was necessary for us to move once again.
Fortunately, I found a house with an identical lay out without stairs so that Mom could spend her time out in the yard tending to the plants and just enjoying the outdoors. We had a large outdoor patio where I hung fushias and begonias from the rafters and filled the space with hostas and ferns. I bought a large Asian pot and filled it with water and goldfish and lotus.
We were happy in this house and I hoped we wouldn’t have to move again. Mom was quite near her church and the bus came directly to our door to pick her up to take her anywhere she wanted to go. We lived in the neighborhood where she had raised us. We were home.
One day, shortly after we moved in, a beautiful and talkative mixed breed cat that looked much like a siamese, came strolling up the street and walked straight into the house, just as though she’d been there before. I think she had found home.
She found it comfortable, sleeping on the corner of Mom’s bed in Mom’s bedroom or sitting at her feet or walking back and forth so that Mom could pet her and gently pull her tail. Mom would give her food and water and they would spend the day together as I worked. I knew they were close but at that time I didn’t realize just how close they had become.
The cat we called Mama, as I did for many of the cats that I had in my life. If Mom were gone and it was just me at home, Mama didn’t pay much attention to me except to lay close if I were sitting on the couch or in a chair. She might follow me outside to sit on the patio furniture if I happened to sit for a while.
I could tell that the cat was only trying to figure out where Mom had gone. One day, Mom went to the hospital where she stayed for two weeks. When she came home, it was to wait for the inevitable.
We situated the hospital bed in front of the large window where Mom could see the goings on in the neighborhood. She, and her constant companion, watched for the mailman, the newspaper delivery, and the many visitors who came with cookies, cakes and kisses.
Mama sat with Mom day in and day out and reluctantly jumped off the bed only when we changed the bedding. Then came the day when Mom cut the cord that tied her to this world. Family and friends came to say their last goodbyes. I didn’t notice if Mama was around or hiding safely but out of sight.
When everyone was gone, my sister, my daughter and I (and Mama) were the only ones in the house with Mom as she took her last breath. Mama sat quietly on the hospital bed, against the window beside the front door, as Mom’s body was carried out into the wee hours of the night.
Just two days after Mom’s passing, the hospital bed had been removed by the hospice folks. Later in the day, I saw Mama in Mom’s bedroom, laying on the end of her bed. I hadn’t been paying much attention to her as I had much to attend to. I laid my hand on her soft body expecting a reaction but she was cold and stiff. Mama had died.
I think Mama had come to accompany Mom on her journey out of this world. Now her work was over and it was time for her to rest, as well. You were never my cat, Mama, but I loved you, too. Thank you for walking with Mom as she passed on. We won’t ever forget you for accompaning life and then death.
The edge. The letting go. The possibilities. My first solo flight.
A toast to everything that held my hand; held me together; provided security.
But this is the time of whatever, whenever.
I’ll trust my wings, my heart, my desires.
Salud!
(PS: Written nine years ago today, I sat in a candlelit bar, having walked out of work for the last time. With a drink in hand, it was a dark and rainy day. I was alone in my reverie. Tears of joy, of fear, of the unknown? Looking back, I have no regrets.
Yum Yum doesn”t like to be cold but prefers the luxuriant scarves that cover and offer the warmth needed on a pre-autumnal day of grey clouds and damp streets.
She might stay here all day in her reverie of summer days… who’s extreme heat also is not to her liking.
She longs for spring days that neither intensely burn nor send chills through her sensitive constitution.
I will provide the lush environment that pleases her.
eyeamdust 