JUST LIKE HER
JUST LIKE HER
By Gabriela León Bolaños
There is a portrait in my abuelitos’ living room of a woman I never had the privilege to know. Even though it is miles and miles away, in the land of my birth and my best memories, I remember it vividly. She has dark hair, like mine, warm brown skin as she basked in the sun as I loved to do as a child, and big dark eyes that I learned to love because I saw them in her first. She is one end of a spool of thread that has traveled miles and miles even with her gone.
She is my Tía, the one everyone used to call my mami’s twin even though she was older and she joked about her baby sister all the time, and the woman who my parents always told me I was exactly alike. My tia and I, kindred women who never got to meet, are interwoven like the petate I used to nap on at my abuelita’s house. I would stare at her picture and trace the contours of her face, look at myself in the mirror, and try to find her there. It is not exactly the same, but I catch her reflection from time to time. It tugs at the threads in my heart that exists even after her passing.
“My tia and I, kindred women who never got to meet, are interwoven like the petate I used to nap on at my abuelita’s house.”
My mother used to tell me I was just like her in a tone that was fond and exasperated, surprised and concerned all at once. When I used to come back home with scraped knees and muddy clothes, I was “just like my tia at that age.” When I would stay defiant in the face of my mami’s anger, afraid but stubborn, I was just like her. When my Abuelito would hug me close at the end of every school year, after the awards were given out, for a long moment, he didn’t have to say the words for me to know: you remind me of her.
I have now lived longer than my tía was allowed to. I have known her family for longer than she did, and even though I never knew her the way I wish I had, I carry the thread connecting us since the moment I saw her portrait. She wasn’t allowed to be a tía to me, but I honor the stories I was told about her; I take pride in being just like her. My family and I have continued to weave our stories since her passing, but she is always present. I give the thread connecting us a little tug every now and then. I hope she knows how honored I am to be just like her.
- For my tía Nora and all the women who lend us their colors to keep weaving our own stories.
“My family and I have continued to weave our stories since her passing, but she is always present.”