In the whirlwind of my mind, I never lose sight of you. So much of who I am as a person, as a woman, is because of you and your grace. I aspire to be even a fraction of the woman you were. I watched you feed the hungry, heal the sick, and give to those in need. You raised children you didn’t birth. You made my nightgowns as a child, baked my birthday cakes during the summer, and picked passion fruit off the tree in the yard to make juice. I watched how people can bloom when you pour into them. You even secretly had me baptized when you found out my parents weren’t doing all that Catholic business.

So many people felt the love you had to give. It was abundant, non-discriminatory, and renewable—a resource that never seemed to end. The love I received from you shaped my compassion, my understanding, and my hospitality, all built on the foundation of your work ethic. I watched you nurture your plants, hop into your car to pack up all your grandchildren for church, and braid my hair. Even when the pain of arthritis panged in your hands, you kept going. And you never sought accolades. You didn’t give with the expectation of receiving. You were humble about everything.

I could go on about all the amazing things you did, even though you’re no longer here to listen. I just hope you knew how much we love and appreciate all the sacrifices you made to give us such a great life.

As we both got older, the thought of your death gave me anxiety. I dreaded the thought of not sharing this realm with you. You were my angel on Earth. I could understand why you wanted to be with your son when he passed. I empathize with having to bury one of your children. I imagine no parent ever thinks that they’ll outlive their children. I hated hearing that for my own selfish reasons. But I know your ecstatic to be with him again. I found courage in knowing you prayed for me every day. When I walked away from antics unscathed, I knew it was because I was covered by you. Now, what am I to do? I go to sleep every night hoping you’ll find me in my dreams. I wish I could hold your hand one more time and listen to your stories about your travels as a nurse. God, I loved listening to your stories. When your memory began to fade, you’d get so excited seeing my sewing machine and ask me over and over if I had bought it myself. What I would give to be able to answer you one more time.

“Hard work never killed nobody,” you used to say. Everything about my work ethic came from you. You saved your money to move to America, built your home in Santa Cruz, and retired with a good pension. I wanted to have all my ducks in a row, to grow food and raise dogs just like you. Sometimes I see my hyper-independence as a flaw, but I know you wanted your granddaughters to never have to depend on anyone. You made sure we were set up for success. When we started earning our degrees and entering the workforce, I knew we were making you proud. You were excited to learn that we were saving our money and building our lives.

When Dad complained when I started stretching my ears, “defacing my body” he called it, you celebrated my individualism. You told me that I was following my ancestors. When my father complained when I started my leg sleeve, you were so intrigued with the art that was on my body. You acceptance meant everything to me. I don’t care how anyone else feels, my grandma likes it.

Occasions like this tend to bring a lot of wishes. I wish we had more time. I wish I had taken more opportunities to visit you instead of being a workaholic. I wish I could hear you ask me what’s going on with my hair one more time. There are so many things I would give up without question if it allowed me another moment with you. But alas, this is a lesson in acceptance. I’m learning to accept the things I cannot change. I’m reminded that nature will always take its course.

Physically, you may no longer be here, but you will live on forever through all of us. We will continue to breathe life into you through our memories and by calling your name. When I make sorrel or hem my pants, I know your spirit will be honored in the traditions I’m keeping alive. I’ll never stop talking about you. I’ll make sure no one ever forgets you. As long as I’m here, you’ll always be here too.

I can’t wait to see you again.