Every night, someone sets an extra place at the dinner table.
No guest ever arrives.
No one in the house asks why anymore.
Tonight…
the chair is no longer empty.
Growing up I loved my grandmother.
And she loved me.
I know we all love our grandparents.
But she’s the only grandparent I actually had a relationship with.
Consuelo was her name.
Curly hair parted in the middle.
Light-skinned.
Wise eyes.
She loved wearing sweaters.
“Who’s your favorite grandson?”
I’d ask over the phone while she was at my aunt’s house.
“It’s you, mijo.”
Grandma loved me.
I didn’t get to spend much time with her.
I suppose we all wish we could spend more time with a loved one.
My mother’s mother.
My second mother, I’d like to think.
Abuelita.
At our household we are not very communicative.
We all sit at the table with our cell phones out, watching our own videos.
At the head of the table there’s been an empty spot that no one has sat in since my mother came back from Mexico after Abuelita passed.
My mother, Leticia, whose name seems to mean joy…
always has to say hello to everyone and waits for a hello back.
She loved to hold a space for her beloved Consuelo.
It changed this Sunday.
She served breakfast like every morning.
She usually doesn’t sit to eat breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
“Why don’t you ever sit?”
“I always stood because of work.
I don’t want to sit as much as possible.
When I sit too long, I get desperate.”
Sunday…
she sat to eat breakfast.
She sat in the chair.
“Why are you sitting down today?”
“Huh…
Oh, did I ever tell you after I came back from Abuelita’s funeral in Mexico?”
“No…”
“I used to sit in the backyard in the dark and pray…
I mean pray to God to see my mother.
Every night.
Every night.
Eventually I’d go to the backyard and sit in the same spot and imagine the chair was her embrace.”
Today…
I want to feel her embrace.
We loved you then, love you now, and will love you always, Abuelita.
Question for the Reader
Is there an object, place, or tradition that still reminds you of someone you’ve loved?
Subscribe
If you enjoyed reading this, consider subscribing.
I write about ordinary moments, family, memory, and the quiet experiences that shape who we become. New reflections are published regularly.
Leave a Reply