This week has been a whirlwind. My parents boarded their plane to Dominican Republic, landing at almost 4 in the morning on a Saturday, Last Saturday. The same Saturday I wake up with countless messages and missed calls. I didn’t even know who to respond to first. My cousin Sasha’s blatant crying makes it hard for me to comprehend what she’s trying to tell me. “Something bad happened.” I jump up and throw on the first clothes I see. I didn’t even bother to put on socks. I needed to get to Brooklyn fast. As much as it hurt to make a call, and I made it anyway, no questions asked I pleaded. I put my pride to side once again, hoping that a favor will be dealt, I was wrong.
I asked my little brother Jeremy, to join me on my ride and just be there for me, moral support. Two hours later I arrived at Abuela Magaly’s house. I walk in, and the place was packed with aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members. The first person I trip over is my godmother Margaret. She’s on the floor, bawling her eyes out, almost rocking herself while she screams. I throw myself on the floor alongside her, my body is hugging her, and I’m kissing her all over her face.
Heartbroken and lost. We’re all full of sorrow and wondering why. Abuela Magaly is/was the matriarch of the family. The glue that held us all together. United, that’s how she always wants/wanted her family to be. Holidays will never be the same. The funeral viewing was hard. Two days full of tears, grief, prayers. Her body, beautiful, but all I kept doing was staring, hoping that maybe it was all a lie, waiting for her to take in a deep breath. I was hoping too hard. I couldn’t even stomach going to the burial.
I know the main things everyone says, she’s in a better places, yes… and now with Jasmine, we all know how much they got along. But it still hurts.