Praying for Mamacita

 

She calls me “Hijita” which means, “little daughter.” In the last few years, I’ve begun calling her “Mamacita”. When we are together we hug often, then brush tears from our eyes. “If only,” I whisper in her ear.

My children first referred to her as Tia, for aunt, when they were small, then later they called her Abuela, for grandmother. We loved hearing the sound of Nydia’s laughter, the lovely Cuban words she tossed into everyday conversation, the enchanting lilt of her voice, the feminine gesture of her delicate hands. Having studied French in high school, I always wished I could better understand those Spanish terms she used, but I got the gist of what she was saying. Like when she called me Hijita. I knew it meant that I was special.

Twenty-six years ago when I came to Wooster, I found Nydia at the high school where we both taught. We sat at the lunch table together, discussing our families and our classes. She told me about her treasured sons, her beloved husband. She knew I was in Wooster alone, so she made me into family. When I married, she came to the wedding with her spouse. When I had young children, she showed up with home-baked cookies for the kids, or, more recently, flan for my husband’s birthday. 

Back when I was still single, we had one of our first celebrations. Our friend Marjorie and a few others met at my tiny apartment. Nydia’s husband, Oscar, brought Spanish music and we ate, then danced till sweat bled through our clothes. We emptied the cupboards looking for noisemakers like unpopped popcorn and peanuts in the can. When my husband arrived later, he gestured to the punch bowl with a smile. “No, John, it’s not spiked” I told him, thinking he should know better. 

When Oscar took ill years ago, I visited my friends often. I rubbed Oscar’s feet and fed him ice cream while Nydia cried in the kitchen. After his passing, Nydia bravely moved to a different home, after living at the same address for over fifty years. She often told me about her immigration to the states, her early years with Oscar. She spoke of her brothers and extended family, too, some who still live in her native Cuba. 

Over the years, our family had our own holidays with Nydia. She brought pages of silly jokes to read to the children. She ruffled their hair and looked into their eyes before clutching them to her chest uttering “Miguelito” and “Laurita”.  There was no secret to her loving.  Even the dogs ran through the house, excited to see their Abuela.

Last week while driving through town, I suddenly thought of Nydia: her full head of blonde hair, the soft blue of her eyes, the gentle touch of her hands, the way she cradled me to her often and murmured “Hijita”. I tried to imagine a world without her, but my heart came up empty.

Only days later, I discovered that she had taken ill. I remembered my last birthday, when Nydia was our only guest. She presented me with hand carved foot molds that her aunt from Cuba once used for the booties she knitted. Booties like the ones I now make. 

Thinking of her in the hospital bed, I took those little wooden feet from the shelf and held them to my chest as she so often held me to hers. 

“Mamacita” I uttered with prayers cast to heaven. “Protect her, God,” I asked Him. And tears welled up in my eyes, as I remembered.