35. THE FUNERAL
THE FUNERAL
You hold no power over me. This is what my mom used to say to me when she lashed out for reasons that are complicated to explain in a short speech.
I can only guess what was wrong with her.
She never went to a therapist or a psychiatrist. She never wanted to be helped.
She never wanted to change. When she hit me, she used belts or broomsticks or shoes.
Never her hands. It was as though she needed distance.
I am not a victim. She told me that. I was not a victim of hers, I was simply a circumstance.
I don’t know if anyone truly knew my mother.
I don’t know what her philosophy on life was.
Was she secretly an optimist? Or was she a nihilist?
I don’t know what she thought about the afterlife.
I only know what I saw when I looked her in the eyes.
It looked like sadness and rage. Sometimes, she went silent and hid for days on end until she decided it was time to come out and tell me what chores to finish around the house.
You forgot to water the plants. You forgot to dust the living room.
You forgot to clean up the kitchen floor.
Why can’t you do it correctly? She used to let her nose bleed freely down her face and belly, trailing down her legs until the floor was smeared with her.
She used to dirty up rooms on purpose. Bursts of frenzy that resulted in a lot of broken glass, torn up furniture, and holes in the walls.
My mom seemed to be a turbulent force of fury.
She hated how I looked. My hair. My face.
My belly. My teeth. The shape of my hips.
It was as though she couldn’t stand seeing me accept myself.
She really wanted me to hate myself. I used to forget that I was a kid.
It didn’t matter to her. I looked over my shoulder when Mom was home.
I held my breath and waited for her to fall asleep.
I stayed up all night because that was the only time I could spend truly alone.
Without her. I used to think something was wrong with me.
Why couldn’t I stand my mother? Why did looking at her piss me off and make me want to chew my nails until my hands bled?
Looking inward is for the weak. That’s another thing she used to say.
We pave forward. We never look back. I have no choice but to look back at this strange force of a woman who was my mother.
Now, she’s in decay, she’s moving into another realm, and none of this haunts me.
She was here and now she’s not.
We are born to die.
She was born to decay and I feel fine.
***
Olivia walks up to the podium. Her mother, in a white casket, still and silent behind her. A projector cycles through old photos of Isela. Olivia shakes the nerves out of her hands and takes in a deep breath. She hides behind a black veil. She pulls it over her head.
My mom was a complicated woman to love, but I loved her anyway.
She taught me independence and she taught me how to cook.
I never got to thank her for that. I hope she knows she was loved, even in her gravitation toward distance.
I am thankful to be a part of this family, who loved my mother in spite of her complicated history.
Mom, I love you. I am your daughter which means, in you, there are reflections of me, and in me, there are reflections of you.