La Niña y la Muerte

Once upon a time, there was a little house on the north side of Sacramento, California. The old couple that lived there had moved in when they had emigrated from Mexico in the 60s and had never left. Their eight children were born and raised in that house and now their grandchildren would visit them there. It was seldom a quiet house. One of their grandchildren, a little girl of about six years of age, would come and stay with them twice a month. The couple’s son was no longer living with the child’s mother and often asked his parents to watch his daughter. No one complained. They enjoyed each other’s company.

On most days, the grandmother would take the granddaughter to the yard, point out all the different types of flowers, show her how to weave the stems together to make a crown, taught her to be gentle with the insects and guided her in planting and moving soil. Yet on this particular day, there would be no yard play or conversation or kind conversation. On this day, the grandmother was different. She nudged the girl to wake up in the morning. With a heavy sigh, she asked the little girl if her mother had packed her a black dress. The little girl pulled a black and white polka dotted dress from her overnight bag. “Bueno, por lo menos tiene negro.” The grandmother helped her granddaughter get ready. Braided her hair, helped her put on her ruffled socks and zipped up her dress. Tied a ribbon around her waist and tied a perfect bow. Buckled her shiny black mary janes. As the grandmother performed every task with love and care, the little girl couldn’t help but notice that her usually vibrant and joyful abuelita was very quiet except for the heavy sighs she released. Yet she didn’t ask why. She simply observed.

The grandmother then ushered the little girl into the family car where her grandfather drove the three of them for quite a distance. The little girl wondered if they were going to church. Or perhaps to visit other family members. Instead, they arrived at a strange building she’d never been in before. The grandmother guided the young girl inside- a space which seemed like it once had been a home yet there were no bedrooms or televisions for kitchens. Instead, there were lots of chairs and many family members and, for a moment, she swore she had seen a large shiny box at the end of the room.

Everyone around her also carried the same gray weight her grandmother seemed to have been hauling all day. They spoke quietly, with tears in their eyes. The grandmother would nod and say thank you. She then took the young girl’s hand and walked her to the front, where the box lay. The top of the box was open but she was not tall enough to see. Her grandmother lifted her up slightly to peek inside. The young girl was confused. She saw a very old man, as if asleep, inside. Her grandmother told her, “es mi hermanito.” And the young girl asked, “¿lo vamos a despertar?” and her abuelita said, “we can’t.” The grandmother began to cry, this time she seemed to have been overwhelmed by an even greater weight. The little girl guided her to a chair and hugged her grandmother.

On seeing her cry, the little girl, too, began to cry. She did not understand why she was crying. She simply couldn’t help but feel hurt because her grandmother seemed hurt. It was as if the pain was passing through everyone and every single person was connected by this feeling of uncertainty and grief. The little girl could only understand that for the first time in her life, she could connect to a feeling that was not hers. That collective pain could be felt. They stayed to speak to others and at certain moments, members of her family would stand and speak. The little girl drifted in and out of conversations. No one spoke to her. She simply sat and stared at the box.

She learned a word that day, muerte. A sleep we do not wake up from. She waited patiently for the evening to end.

As the grandparents and the granddaughter made their way home, the little girl stared out the window and wondered- if she could feel collective pain, could she also, perhaps, also feel collective joy?