My grandparents’ marriage birthed ten sons and three daughters, which sprouted over 60 grandchildren. My aunts, uncles, and cousins live across San José, Turlock, and Aguililla. We rarely all get together, but by far, our biggest family gathering was my grandma’s funeral. I didn’t know a room filled with over 100 people could be completely silent.
For me, my grandmother’s passing is strongly associated with silence. On the day of the funeral, nobody spoke on the mic. I found out she died through a buzz from a text message. When I first saw my dad after she died, he buried his head into a pillow and couldn’t talk through his tears. The last day I saw her alive, she had a tube in her throat so that she couldn’t speak or laugh.
To this day, she isn’t in my family’s conversations but in our lives in other ways. There’s a nearly life-size portrait of my grandma in my parent’s living room that makes eye contact with everyone who walks into the house. She’s also visible in my grandpa’s puffy eyes, my dad’s dedicated tattoo for her–a clock and dove, and an empty chair at the table on the holidays. Beyond that, my tio decorates her tombstone for the holidays, my cousin has her as his prole picture on Instagram, and on long drives, my mom shares a long-forgotten piece of lore — like when they shared a bottle of Kahlua while their husbands were at work.
