Prose for a Loved One

Julieta Raga Wood- her name clings to my mind like some haunting phantom whose silhouette hides in every person, whose smile hides behind every good intention, and whose love hides among the willows of truth and beauty.
Love is an everlasting torrent of affection, and the blue waters that fill my soul reflect the perfect nature of being. It is my grandmother who seems to act as that eternal ferryman of my conscious, constantly reminding me to search a little further with a little more light and with a little less fear.
At times when the dark shadows of the world stand as mammoths in my mind beckoning me into a state that I fear, it is the thought of my grandmother which allows me to muster that last ounce of courage that seems vital to my progress as an individual.
My grandmother was a noble woman. I centered my life around unraveling her grace. Her nature was a mystery to me; never have I seen such joy in simplicity. Many nights I would talk to her, the whispers echoing a keen sense of understanding that I have yet to replicate. I remember her speaking to me in Spanish, retaining an accent that was a constant reminder of who she was, like some invisible hand caressing me and telling me her secrets.
Sometimes, she would use her language as a weapon. Her words still permeate my being, a constant reminder of the resonance of the human spirit. I find it ironic that in her haste and vehement conviction she would chastise me in incomprehensible words; communicating to me solely with the spirit of purpose.
However, her death has left me distraught, and the demons of disbelief have become as much as part of my being as the angels of hope. My biggest regret in life was not truly saying goodbye to my grandmother, not telling her how much I loved her and cared for her. Not allowing her to realize that so much of who I am is dependent on her care, the care only a grandmother can give.
I remember her death vividly, a testament to the ironic reality that those memories that lie active in your mind are the ones you wish to lock in the dark corridors of your conscious.
I wish that I had been able to talk to her before she had her aneurism. I wish that I could have filled her mind with my words before it was adulterated by the scent of death. I wish that instead of filling my time with idleness, I could have spoken to her. That she could have taken me be back to Spain with her elegant stories. That I could have gained more perspective into a person from whom I could still learn so much. The saddest and most regretful truth is that so many times when my grandmother would try to engage me in conversation, I would say I was too busy or I just wouldn’t listen. What frail character I exhibited! If I could take it all back I would spend every second that I could with her; I would caress her with my words and sooth her with my spirit. I would allow her to occupy every nook and cranny that my mind would allow. Now, when I am mature enough to realize it, she is gone; her death leaving a hole in the barren soil of my soul.
I remember clinging to my scriptures when death was looming over her, randomly reading passages about death, life, and the elusive celestial glory which was heralding my grandmother in, one pulse at a time. I did not cry; I couldn’t cry because crying would mean that I had lost, that the looming mammoth in my mind, my fear, had stomped over the white-clothed figure of hope that was guarding the bastions of my conscious. I remember closing my eyes, seeing her face smiling at me with an unnatural sense of dignity. As if death itself could not conquer her. I wasn’t alone. I remember my mother’s face, drowning with the tears of innocent remorse. I remember my father’s face, twisted and conformed into the epitome of solidarity.
Soon the heart monitor stopped beeping, and my head turned and I saw my mother burying her face into my grandmother’s chest, my dad rushing to console her, and the scriptures I held so dearly to my bosom falling to the floor and meeting their abrupt end; the faith I had in them meeting the same fateful end.
Julieta Raga Wood- she still ferries the turbulent streams of my conscious. Along every bend, against every sharp wave, she is still there. Her life and her subsequent death have shaped me, and the interior of my soul remains an altar for the grace that my grandmother has left me in charge. The grace beckons me to live a life that resembled my grandmother’s: one full of hope and a testament of the triumph of the human spirit.