Día de los Muertos

Mama's recollection.

I was given this by a wonderful teacher in high school with a Mexican heritage, to celebrate my mom.

Can you miss someone you have never met? Mmmhhh, I don’t know.

But haven’t I really met my mom? I mean her belly was my first home and we must have spent a lot of time together from December 2000 until November 2002. The only problem is, I remember none of it. I try to think about her, or to be more accurate, imagine her. Sometimes it feels unfair, when you are essentially related to someone but you don’t know much about them. It can cause a restlessness, that pushes you to want to know more, to ask, investigate, to go back in time. While sometimes I search so hard, other times it just takes a long look at myself on the mirror, and my face and hers intertwine.

It was when I was 12 when I finally got sure my mom had passed away many years back. And as weird as it sounds, it was actually on TV. My aunt had called me to go see her at her house that evening. We sat in the living room watching this program that payed tribute to people who had passed. The family or friend would send in the picture of their deceased and some short message about that person. And there she was, on the screen. Dark hair tied in a bun, light-brown skin tone, slim face, calm smile. Evetha. That’s her name.

I once asked my dad how they met, and he seemed quite shy about it and only said at work. But I could still figure out a suppressed smile from his lips, so I’m guessing their love story started in a beautiful flirty way. It’s in gaps like these where people you don’t know get more interesting, or in this case, people you do not have the chance to meet again. Because the gaps leave room for wonder and imagining of possibilities of what that person was like. I know a couple of things about Evetha, my mom. It’s from the photos I have seen and from accounts of people who met her.

It’s in gaps like these where people you don’t know get more interesting, or in this case, people you do not have the chance to meet again. Because the gaps leave room for wonder and imagining of possibilities of what that person was like.

One of my sisters tells me her food was the best. She specifically recalls how she cooked pilau, with peas and spices that gave it a different taste from the typical pilau. Another sister tells me her toes made a sound when she walked, like a very very small pop sound. You could easily tell when she was walking around the house. She had a raspy voice, one that feels slightly heavy and scratchy. She ran businesses, once it was a grocery store called Ndeshi, which I’m guessing comes from my grandmother’s name, her mother, Ndeshiona. It means one who will see or experience a lot. She used to listen to songs by the famous Zimbabwean singer, Oliver Mtudkuzi. Now I know where my good taste in music might have come from, haha. And they tell me of how she used to to play with them a game called Rede, and I suddenly wish I was born earlier to have experienced her.

To think of myself as a daughter she had, is truly awe-inspiring sometimes. When I think that half of who I am is her, genetically, makes me feel like the closest people can now get to her. I try to think of how much we resemble in ways I might not even know. My hair, my nails, the slope of my nose bridge. What if some people look at me and feel like they have just met her once again?

This year, November 10th marks her 21st death anniversary. I feel like I’m just beginning to know her all over again. So maybe, she lives anew.