Jennifer Robles

It was the summer of 2012. I was taking summer school P.E. and I had just arrived home when I noticed the house was quiet. Usually my mother would be blasting her cumbias and washing the dishes while singing along, but this time the air felt solemn. As I walked through the living room, she appeared by the doorway, her eyes swollen with grief. “Se murió,” she spluttered. My grandmother had been sick for weeks, but still, I could not believe it. I never had a family member pass away and despite never knowing her in the flesh, I shared the grief with my mother. I grew up hearing how my great grandmother was indeed great. How she was my mother’s protector. My mother desperately wanted to go back to Mexico to say her final goodbye, but on top of not having any money for her travel expenses, she also could not go because of her immigration status. The undocumented are not granted these final goodbyes. Borders make sure of it. My great grandmother’s funeral came and hundreds of people showed up. My mother not included. I couldn’t understand the depth of my mother’s grief, but I knew not being able to attend her funeral haunted her.

Now, 8 years later, I decided to dedicate this ofrenda to Mama Aurelia. My mother never celebrates Dia de Los Muertos and she almost refused to let me do it on account that she does not believe in it. She eventually changed her mind after we shared cuentos of my Mama Aurelia. When we were setting up the altar and making the paper marigold flowers, she would often glance at the photo of her grandmother. We had to ask various family members before we got a hold of one singular grainy picture of Mama Aurelia, but we got a hold of it. As we lit the candles, the altar came to life and my mother started to cry. “Nunca le dije adios,” she sobbed. “Pues este año le puedes decir bienvenidos porque nos va a visitar” I replied. “Tienes razón,” she said while she let out a small smile. In this way, I hope she is able to find some solace in the altar.