Sunrise to Sunset

Sunrise to Sunset Part 3

I whisper softly to myself: "It is time."

I force myself to get up from the soft cushioned chair that brings temporary solace. I can see my aunts praying with their head eyes close, clutching rosary beads. I make my way pass them. They don't even notice or look up. The pain in my heart is palpable and loud in its muffled silence; aching for the familiar gentle touch, the familiar gentle kiss, the familiar gentle honeyed voice. Move one leg and then the other, I tell myself. I head toward the staircase, and suddenly become aware of my steps. My feet drag like lead. I clutch the banister, the hardwood under the grip of my fingers, as I hope that I do not fall. I think I hear people calling my name, but I ignore it.

I begin to descend the commercial carpeted steps. It seems to be occurring in slow motion like I'm gingerly walking on the moon; floating in space. My heart is beating faster. Breathe. You can do this, I say under my breath. But I've never felt this afraid or uncertain. Maybe I am still in shock? Mom has always been there for me.

And now I am alone.

My knuckles are white from clutching the banister as though it will keep me from falling, but my palm is starting to sweat and I almost trip.

I catch myself in time.

In time to hear the soft sound of sobbing, invading my ears like a q-tip digging deep.

I take a deep breath. And continue moving one foot in front of the other.

I can hear the sound more clearly; a tremor of distorted noise.

I try my best to steady my heartbeat by taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly.

And then I see her there.

My sister.

Her brown hair covers part of her face, but I can see the gentle shake of her shoulders. I've never seen her this bad before. Not even when we were growing up. She was always so guarded.

But here she is, sitting on a small beige leather couch, just outside of the women's bathroom. Her navy blue blouse was somewhat wrinkled, and a small collection of balls of white tissue paper lay on top of her black pencil skirt like so much dead road-kill—one of which fell on the floor and rested near her matching black shoes, apparently unnoticed.

I sigh. A tear slides down my right cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

My heart is broken...but so is hers. I feel a little selfish. Maybe, I didn't try hard enough? Maybe, she needed ma more than I did?

Before I change my mind, I walk slowly over to her.

I can hear a baby crying upstairs. I think it's my cousin's Florencia's. She came from Miami, Florida to pay her respects. Most of my relatives have moved all over the States, and my mother's goddaughter even moved with her husband to Spain.

She doesn't notice me walking over to her, until I place my hand on her shoulder.

She doesn't say anything, but I can see through her tear-stained face, an appreciative nod. Thank you.

As much as we didn't get along, we always knew how the other felt.

And in this moment, I feel warmth, a sense of comfort, a sense of hope.

I feel my mom.

I think I smell lavender.

"Are you wearing any perfume?" I ask.

"No. You smell it too?"

We both look around, but nobody is there except my cousin, George, coming out of the men's bathroom.

"Are you two, okay?"

We both nod our heads.

A shiny light catches me out of the corner of my left eye. I look over at the small wooden end table next to the couch. A prayer card lay on top.

I pick it up.

My mom's smiling face greets me. She was forty-four when that picture was taken. She was so beautiful. Seeing her all-knowing big brown eyes and slightly rouged cheeks makes me relax a little.

Beneath her picture it reads:

Maria J. Gomez

Sunrise June 8, 1953

to

Sunset May 21, 2015

Clarissa's crying stops, "I always liked that picture." Her voice albeit raspy, almost sounds tender now; like a rainbow after an all night of raining.

"I do too." Then, I place the card down on the table, as if it is the most precious glass that if done too hard can easily shatter. I extend my hand to her and ask, taking a deep breath, "ready, to go back up?"

She looks at me, uncertain at first. For a moment, I think she is going to remember who she is talking with and tell me to "fuck off" or "go dig my own grave and disappear," but to my surprise, she smiles and says, "If not now, then never." She takes my hand and we both head back up. Her soft and thin fingers wrap around my own rougher ones, since I was putting some new tiles in my apartment a couple of weeks ago—almost finished.

And here we are...uncertain about what else to expect, walking hand in hand.

Together.