Cee Chávez

Recuérdame Mamá

In her last week of life

eyes glazed over from medications and pain

Mom spoke to me in Spanish.

Could she see me?

Did she know who I was?

Mom never spoke in Spanish anymore

The words rolled off her tongue

lingered in the space between her mouth and my ears

Was I her daughter in that moment

or a nurse bringing morphine

 an old friend saying their last goodbyes?

She reminded me of Grandma’s dementia:

slipping in and out of languages

groggily confused by the visitors

her surroundings

only comforted by Dad’s presence.

Three days later

I put on the old home video

that made us all laugh

and though she couldn’t see it

it put a small smile on her face

to hear three year old me in conversation with

her sweet voice behind the camcorder

telling me I couldn’t feed my baby brother

because I didn’t have leche

as I pointed to my chest.

After watching this video for the first time

Corinne told me they’d never heard Mom’s voice before

It’s been a shell of a voice the whole time I’ve known her.

I hadn’t realized

it had become a hollowed out version of itself

lungs no longer capable of holding enough oxygen

scarred over from fighting for air

body only lending enough strength for a whisper.

Had she been dying in front of me that whole time?

Later, I went to Mom’s room

to say goodbye before driving home

Her eyes turned thin and slant

and I couldn’t tell if she could see me or not

if she knew who I was

as she sharply asked why I was there

smothered by my presence

annoyed she might have to give

what little energy she had left.

Could she see me?

Did she know who I was?

There’s still shame in saying that it hurt

(that it still does)

to wonder if the memory of how much she loved me

was dying at the same time she was.