Hoy no es ningún día especial. Today is not a special day.
As I get out of bed, the cold morning air that filters through my slightly open bedroom window hits me like a boulder. Out of habit, I check my phone. The first thing I see, as if mocking me, is a photo of him in one of those quick scroll notes on the page before your home screen.
Mi viejo. My old man.
No quiero llorar, esta vez no, ya no. I don’t want to cry, not this time, not anymore.
On my bookshelf is a long glass candle, the Virgin Mary printed on its casing. My dad used to light one of these on the same day every year, the day his father died. It was a way to mourn.
Una manera de dejar ir y para recordar. A way to let go and to remember.
The wick is already charred, the wax melted into the sides from being lit for two days. The Day of the Dead, and Dec. 5.
Pero hoy no es ese dia. But today is not that day.
I leave my room. I walk into the kitchen and see Walmart bags lining the floor. Chiles, a large can of maize, and classic tortilla chips. I look up at the giant pot, with burn stains from years past, boiling once again. They can only mean one thing: pozole, a brothy meaty stew common in cold weather. My mom is in the kitchen.
“Viene tu tía hoy.” “Your aunt is coming today.”
Nov. and Dec. are the few months that I see my family a lot more. Fall and winter are seasons when we come together on random weekend afternoons or when it’s snowy and a bowl of pozole between family is better than being alone.
It took hours of cleaning and cooking, and staring out the window at cold winter landscapes. Two hours late at 8 o’clock, there’s a knock at our door.
They’re here.
Around them, two hours of eating dinner feels like two minutes. Two minutes of ignoring the world outside of that door. Two minutes of hearing my aunt and mom argue about the name of that one guy who used to sell this on that street back then. Two minutes of forgetting the charred candle. Today without them knowing, they saved me, saved me from the silence.
After they leave it’s just me and my mom, washing dishes.
As the last bowls are getting dumped into the sink, my mom turns to me.
“Para la otra semana vamos a ir con Sofía, van a hacer tamales.” “Next week we’re going with Sofia, they’re going to make tamales.”
A smile grows on my face.
I dry up my hands, hug my mom, say goodnight and lazily wander to my room. I don’t even turn on the lights as I grab the candle and set it on my desk. I light the candle. It engulfs my room in a golden haze.
“Te extraño.” “I miss you.”
Le dijo a nadie. I tell no one.
