I love the art, I love remembering my ma, my grandma and grandpa, I love the air – cool, brisk, chilled. I love my neighborhood, Midtown, filled with Latino shops and bakeries all buzzing with activity.
Strangely, I love grief. OK, maybe not so strange, it was my closest friend for many years as my mom was missing, not yet known to be deceased. It seemed like every day for those 6 and some odd years was one long grieving limbo pattern. And as you know – once you get used to something, even though it seems like a horrific thing, it becomes like a friend. Like a well worn sweater. Not sure why you love it, it looks really awful to all the rest of your friends, but to you its somehow comforting.
Today I will light some candles, build an altar in my prayer space, and talk to my ma. I will tell her all about my niece and how she reminds me of her. I will tell her about all her kids, tell her that we all miss her. I’ll drive down the road, with some Eric Clapton and Dr. Hook and Tractors cranked up real loud, driving just a few miles over the limit, and celebrate.