Counting

Today marks 109 days since my grandmother died. How do I know that? Because I’ve been keeping track every day. Not in a calendar, but in my head and heart. I don’t know why I started counting, or even when I finally realized that I was counting, but here I am 109 days later, still counting. Maybe I thought counting would help me achieve some inner peace or heal my broken heart. You know, like if I reached Day 50 or 75, this hole inside me would magically disappear or the shadows hovering over me would suddenly disperse. Maybe I thought the numbers themselves would reveal some profound wisdom, strengthen me or enlighten me. I thought, for sure, that when Day 100 arrived, my life would change. I mean it was Mother’s Day; that had to mean something, right? Well, I don’t feel any more peaceful, healed, wiser or stronger.

I tracked the days through a miserable winter, when the organization I led for the past 6 years had to close because of funding cuts. I counted as we reached, and then passed, my mother’s second post-cancer follow-up doctor’s visit. (She remains in remission.) During my most intense moments of grief, I counted. Through the depression and lethargy, fear and rage, I counted. Even as I lit candles for her and dreamed of her, I counted. First thing in the morning, I counted. Last thing before I went to sleep, after good night kisses to my husband and bedtime prayers, I counted.

The other night, I walked past the altar I have in my house. On the left there is a picture of my father’s mother, Mamá, the first person I lost. Next to her is a portrait of my father’s sister, Rosario, sitting on a bed. Her hair is frosted and in a huge beehive. In the middle of the altar sits a photo collage of my mother-in-law, Mary. In it there is a picture from her garden, which she tended to with so much love and care. Next to Mary is Pop, my mother’s father, and the only grandfather I ever knew. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with a big smile on his face. All the way on the end, is the latest addition to my altar. My grandmother is in her kitchen, standing over the stove. She’s not smiling; my grandmother didn’t really smile and certainly not in pictures. It’s how I best remember my grandmother.

Then it occurred to me why I counted. I count to remember. I want to keep in mind the lessons she delivered from her pulpit in the kitchen. I have to commit to memory all the stories of her childhood and of a Puerto Rico that now exists only in memories. I need to hold close her strength, her love, and her generosity. I count to remember who my grandmother was and to never forget that she helped make me the woman I am today. So I will keep counting to honor my grandmother and her legacy. One hundred seven, one hundred eight, one hundred nine…

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