Campesina

I did not have much time to write last week. A rather fragile goodbye was at hand for my 92 year old Great Great Aunt. She is not the fragile one, by the way, we are the fragile ones. 

Her life is the stuff great novels are made of. Not just because of the suffering she overcame, but because of what she was able to bring to the world.  Antonia was born on a poor, rural piece of county in Cuba. She was blessed with a horribly large nose, raspy voice, and squatty body shape. She stands at about 4ft 9 inches these days. Her hands now are crooked and wrinkled to the point of looking like origami. But they are unmistakably hands that heal, plant, and work. They are the earthiest hands I have ever seen. Finger built for raking soil and palms made for soothing others. Her silver shot white hair reaches well below her waist. There is no mistaking the fact that she looks like a very sweet Troll doll (ironic because she once worked in a factory that made them). If you were to see her you would probably imagine that no child would ever come near her, she has the appearance of someone the Brothers Grimm would have penned for Hansel and Gretel to tango with. But you would be wrong.

I can't even produce an estimate of how many children she has raised throughout her life, her own and just about everyone else's. My own children love her. During her two month stay at my grandmother's home, the Bear would toddle in and make a straight shot for her. I loved watching him kiss and hug her leathery skin and touch her huge nose with his small finger. She is, I suppose, that timeless cliche of "Don't judge a book by its cover." But that saying is really so much less than she is. By standards of the world she is no one. She is uneducated and rough, easily overlooked. But how to describe the pure wonder of truly looking at her, anyone who has ever taken the time to do so has never regretted it.  

Tia Antonia eats like a horse, even at 92. She can pack away more food than my 17 year old cousin, who could probably eat a dining room table if he needed to. This old bird knows how to eat. And while she eats, she knows how to tell a story. Stories from Cuba that will make your heart race or your sides split from laughter. Strong women, drunks, childhood adventures, animals with a mind of their own, evil men, deep rivers, snakes, and dirty whores you end up cheering for.  Ask her to tell the story again and it won't be the same. She is a true storyteller at heart. 

She is also the bearer of a painful love story. Her true love dying by her side as they slept in the country they had found refuge in. She awoke to discover his lifeless body. The shock of finding herself completely alone and the panic of trying to find help when she couldn't communicate with those around her, bore down on her all at once. The mention of his name still brings a depth of sorrow to her face that is immeasurable. Sometimes I wonder if she is in a perpetual state of saying goodbye to him, she must be, because each day I can see that she loves him more than the day before.  

We've been saying goodbye to her since the late 80s. We pack her bags and take her home. Our cars drive away and we watch that squatty old woman wave goodbye, we stay silent for a good while, contemplating life without her. The next year she waddles back into our lives with her raspy words and soft hands making food we believed we would never taste again. This last goodbye, she reached up and gave me a deep hug. She barely managed to say, "You are my girl. You will always be my girl."  Its strange that she never said goodbye to her husband, and yet everyone else has been saying goodbye to her for twenty years.