When I Dwell on Her

On Christmas morning in 1968, the light filtering through the sheer curtains in my bedroom window woke me from my slumber. There was another snowfall the night before. I rubbed my eyes and craned my neck to admire the soft white blanket that covered our street. I peeled the covers off my warm body and sat up to see that my sister had already vacated her bed. I frantically leapt to my feet and wriggled my toes into my slippers before rushing downstairs. In the living room our artificial Christmas tree, lovingly adorned by my mother, stood tall. But it was the assortment of beautifully wrapped presents embellished with ribbons, bows, and tinsel underneath that stole my attention from the tree. Santa had come! My mother insisted that we eat breakfast before opening gifts. My father was helping prepare breakfast like he usually did. I enjoyed watching them cook together in the kitchen. It was like a dance. Each would start at separate sides occupied with a specific task and glide and sashay around each other to different parts of the room where they blended, whipped, fried, brewed, flipped, poured, and served before joining us at the table to sit and eat. 

I gobbled up my food and excused myself from the table. I started fidgeting on the sofa as my anticipation built; anxiously waiting in the living room for everyone to finish their meal. As soon as everyone gathered, I immediately darted to the tree and inspected the gifts closely to see if I could find my name on them. I handed my siblings their presents until I found a small box with my name on one.  

What I remember most was how perfect she looked. I held my breath as I stared at her. Regal and elegantly centered on a white backdrop, ensconced under a crystal case framed by a nickel-plated bezel, was Cinderella! Her upswept yellow hair exposed her swanlike neckline, adorned with a simple black band. Her classic blue gown draped beautifully as her graceful white gloved arms circled the face, pointing to the hour and minute. The delicate, pale pink leather strap complemented this precious timepiece.  

Every night before I retired to bed, I would gently unclasp the strap and return the piece to her original box which sat prominently on my side of the dresser I shared with my sister. During my waking moments, my Cinderella watch accompanied me everywhere, securely wrapped around my wrist. At school, she was tucked under my long-sleeved, button-down uniform blouse five days a week. On weekends she was more exposed, as I typically rolled up my sleeves when I was indoors. Throughout the day, I would slip my right hand over my left wrist where the watch rested to make sure it was still on. She was familiar and dependable. 

Another year and another Christmas had passed. My best friend and her family moved, and I would never see her again. I sorely missed her and had trouble making new friends. I wasn’t at all popular with the students and what complicated it more was the fact that the teachers liked me; and so, I was always labeled a “brown noser” because I was polite to them. I was lonely, but I found content at home with my dolls and with my ever-faithful Cinderella watch. One Saturday in early February, I woke up after everyone else and ran downstairs to see if there were any remnants of that morning’s breakfast. I satisfied myself with a bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes while reading the back of the cereal box. At one point in between bites, I noticed my bare wrist and jolted out of the chair toward my bedroom. I pulled the small dark cherry wood dresser drawer where she now resided. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw she was safe and sound, smiling up at me. Very carefully, I removed her from her box and placed her on my wrist, and marveled at her. My mother woke me from my daydream and called to me to clean up my mess in the kitchen. Her tone was firm and insistent, but melodic and thoughtful. Her personality was an exquisite concoction of sweet, tart, fruity and piquant mirroring some of her specialty dishes from her native country. Her brown eyes were the color of a dark roasted coffee bean; warm, perceptive, expressive. They spoke before her mouth opened. A disapproving look could splinter a sugar cane stalk.

As I headed down the staircase, I spotted her approaching it. She had a very solemn expression. I uttered “Mami?” but she quickly muttered “no ahora” (not now) and continued her ascent. She had an envelope clenched in her hand against her chest. My curiosity overwhelmed me, so I followed her. When she cleared the landing, I tiptoed back upstairs where I heard voices coming out of my parents’ bedroom. I poked my head up as high as I could without being seen and peeked through the balusters. Their door was slightly ajar, and I could see both sitting on the edge of their bed. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could tell by the gesturing that my mother wanted my father to read the letter she received.

Within a few short seconds, I saw him sob and collapse in my mother’s arms. She embraced him as he wailed. It was a strange and unsettling sight. I was transfixed on my mother as she soothed this man whom I almost didn’t recognize. She didn’t say a word. After snapping out of my trance, I remembered I had to tidy up the kitchen table. 

My mother eventually came back downstairs to prepare dinner. Her hands were strong, purposeful, healing; they nourished and nurtured. They clutched my shoulders to signal when it was safe to cross the street. They stroked my head as it lay in the cushiony fold of her belly where I rested. They caressed me when my boyfriend ended our relationship. They intertwined with mine when we sat to watch her addictive telenovelas. They smacked my leg when my husband entertained her with his stories. They scooped up her adored granddaughter when she cried and cradled her. 

I found it odd that my father wasn’t with her. I pressed her to find out why he wasn’t coming downstairs, and she finally told me that his mother died. I never met my grandparents, so I didn’t understand the impact of death and its effect on a loved one. I looked down at my Cinderella watch and noticed that her hands had not moved for a while. I put the face to each of my ears hoping I would hear the faint, rhythmic ticking sound that lulled me when my head occasionally rested on my arms.

I don’t remember what motivated me to go upstairs to my father and ask him to look at my watch. I was well versed in the clock’s workings and winding mechanism and have been solely maintaining it for over a year. I paused at the door and saw him laying still, staring at the ceiling. I called him, and he slowly lowered his gaze toward me. I asked him if he would “fix” my watch. I trustingly placed her in his hands, and he began to wind her. Before I could tell him to stop, I heard a loud snap! I could see his expression change as he realized what he had done. I stood there, motionless and in disbelief, staring down at my once functioning, beautiful watch. As he handed her back to me, I carefully took her from his trembling hands. We didn’t exchange any words. I looked at her arms hanging limply. I carried her into my room and laid her on my bed. I hoped for a little movement, but it never happened. I placed her back in her box and quietly sat with her on my bed.

Fifteen years later, in the same room, I was struggling with a writing assignment for one of the evening courses I was taking at a state college. It was an unseasonable balmy Saturday afternoon for autumn. The old oscillating fan was also struggling as it rocked back and forth at its highest setting to ventilate my bedroom. I was desperate for an inkling of inspiration. A cacophony of sounds simultaneously emitting throughout the house competed for my attention: the steam hissing from the pressure cooker boiling frijoles negros, the metal drum banging inside the washing machine during its last spin cycle, the muffled clack of her heels sweeping across the linoleum tiled kitchen floor followed by the creaking floorboards straining under the weight of her Hoover vacuum cleaner. 

My mother and I were alone in the house. She was tending to her customary weekend tasks. Lately, she was uncommonly despondent. A few months ago, she had returned from visiting su madre (her mother) and eight hermanas (sisters) in Cuba after a nearly 30-year separation. The tías (aunts) had urged her to arrange a trip to see Abuela (grandmother) as quickly as possible since her health was failing. 

I lost track of time. As I stared down at the blank piece of paper, an unexpected thud woke me from my musings. My mother had dropped the hamper of clothes she was carrying. They lay at her feet while she was leaning against the top of the staircase railing. A sense of forlornness washed over me as I observed her body fold, with her head tilted and bowed, and shoulders tensed and slumped. Her posture sparked a vivid memory of a similar somber moment I once witnessed on those same steps. The events leading to the loss of my cherished Cinderella watch flashed through my mind. Both beloved, both broken. I quietly moved toward her, picked up the clothes and tenderly wrapped my arms around her listless body. Afterwards, I wrote for hours. 

When my father decided to move, she naturally left with him. The distance took a toll on both of us, but we alternated trips back and forth. As the years transpired, she confessed her wariness of traveling. I was solaced by her voice and the knowledge that our phone conversations would ensue until our next encounter. Decades later in 2018, I took my annual post-Christmas trip to Miami to visit her. Our once daily phone calls had radically declined to weekly one-minute chats. She had trouble paying attention and had become irritable. Each visit promised a new symptom. There was no doubting that she had dementia, and it was progressing at a manic speed. Her once sweet, mild-mannered disposition was supplanted with an unrecognizable antagonistic temperament. The last time I saw my mother was in mid-July when she was taken to the hospital. She was complaining of headaches and anxiously pacing. Her caretaker called an ambulance; I rode with her. As she was fighting against the restraints, I held her hand in one of mine and stroked her hair with the other to calm her. I stayed with her for a couple of days and returned home to get some affairs in order. I was planning to go back down the following weekend when I first received a call from my brother and then the hospital. 

She passed on a Sunday morning. I felt a shockwave reverberate throughout my being and asked my daughter to accompany me to Miami to check in on my father. When she and I arrived at the house, my father broke down and instructed us to remove everything of hers. My daughter and I started with her closet and several days later we moved on to her dresser. I didn’t want to rush. As I pulled out and sorted some of her apparel, I could smell her favorite perfume which transported me to heartwarming periods of our lives. I shared many stories with my daughter. Each day, after devoting a few hours on our task, we tidied up rooms, ran errands, prepared meals, and took walks before retiring for the evening. Each morning that followed, we picked up where we left off after my father awoke and exited their bedroom. Her toiletries and jewelry were next. Bobbie pins, curlers, hairbrushes, combs, nail clippers, tweezers, her favorite compact mirror and red lipstick were neatly stored in one of her drawers. My fingers gently caressed the silky hairs embedded in the brush’s bristles. I laid it down and moved on to the jewelry. The many trinkets she collected over the years were meticulously stored in a wooden case my husband had handcrafted for her. 

Next to it was a plain black box with a white label bearing her name and her cremated remains. I lifted the box and pressed it against my chest. It offered me a little consolation. I put it down and returned to the jewelry case. Underneath the coiled gold chains, a charm bracelet, bangles, filigree earrings, pearl brooch, and coral ring was a yellowed piece of paper. I carefully unfolded it so as not to tear it. The image startled me. It was a rendition of my Cinderella watch that I had drawn after my father broke her. In a flash I remembered my mother, now a pile of cinders, cradling my father, as my daughter instinctively held me in her arms while I wailed.