Text Message
A message to my angel.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
(Text message)
Friday, Jul. 16, 2021 at 7:06 p.m.
To start.... you're the strongest
person I've ever met. You've
carried this family with so much
grace, strength, and resilience.
Your legacy will forever live on
because you are the heart of
this family. Your kindness was
like an open hand ready to
catch any of us when we
needed aid. I'm having a hard
time finding the words to
convey what a magical person
you are... but that's the thing...
There are no words.
About a month ago exactly from writing this, my grandmother died. The message above was a text that I frantically typed and sent to her in the event that I was unable to say my last goodbye.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
I’ve always been afraid of death. As a child, it was easy to process the concept and events that involved death because of my hyperactivity, and inevitably, my ADHD became a sort of force field. It shielded me from the genuine, raw, and more oftentimes, difficult emotions that death evokes. But as an adult, that force field weakened. I was exposed, vulnerable, and wanting to run away as fast as I could so my own reality wouldn’t catch up.
My thoughts became much slower, and I was forced to sit into my feelings even when I desperately didn’t want to. It was uncontrollable. But death is also uncontrollable… and it took losing someone so beautiful to remind me.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
My mother would often refer to my grandma as a force, and she was. A force of courage and gratitude that was both admirable and inspirational. A force of beaming kindness that radiated through every room she entered, and everyone instinctively had to stop and stare at her glory. She was also a force to be reckoned with to anyone who pushed her, or her daughters, or her grandchildren. She was invincible. It felt like she was immortal, until my family and I were reminded that time is a luxury, because eventually, mortality has an end.
I believe my grandmother knew this as well, so she lived with intent.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
Having emigrated from Mexico with my grandfather, she built a home that would last generations. It was a home of laughter and a home where no one would leave hungry (because calories didn’t exist in her home). A smile was guaranteed to appear after you left; as you drove away, you’d see her on top of the hill where her house stood, and she’d give a final wave goodbye, followed by her infamous grin.
She created a family: four daughters, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild to be exact. Each so unique, yet all of us carry one of her many magical traits.
I miss her every day, and I always will.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
Though I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, I remember our last conversation. I was sitting at the granite bar of her kitchen counter that outlined the stovetop and on the comal, the scent of three fragrant chicken quesadillas filled the room. We talked as I ate, laughed, and even gossiped. I had just told her that I planned on studying abroad in Denmark, and while I was excited, I was obviously scared to leave home for a six-month period. Though I don’t remember her response, she looked at me with such focus and ease.
During her eulogy, my Tia referred to my grandma as being focused, and in our last interaction, she was. I remember her eyes. It was almost as gentle and warm to be caught in her gaze, as it was if you were basking under the euphoric rays of a melting sun. In every conversation we shared, there was always that same focus and attention. It was just as warm as her hugs, which I’ll forever miss, and once it’s time, I’ll be able to hug her again and I’ll never let go.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
After her passing, I struggled to find a sense of grounding. My fear of death was resurrected, and it trailed behind my 6’3” shadow. I drank. I got really high. I fought with almost anyone I encountered, and hid from those who reached out. To sum it all up, I spiraled... and I’m still spiraling. In the process of losing someone, I had almost lost myself, all because I hadn’t felt her since her passing.
As people would console me, I’d always hear, “she’s still with you,” that “she was still here,” but as terrible as it may sound, I couldn’t feel her. And I tried... So. Fucking. Hard. Yet, nothing — and by the end of it, I was left broken.
But that’s the thing I realized about death and mourning…. that it’s okay to be broken. Because eventually, you can mend those shattered pieces back together into something abstract with so much more depth and beauty than there ever was before. I realized I harbored so much anger because I wanted answers, but even with the answers I was given, I wanted more…. I wanted her. And though it pains me to say this…. I still haven’t felt her, but in time, I know will.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.
At least, above all things, I was able to make it in time to hold her hand one last time, and when I do feel her…I hope that it’s as warm as her hand once was.
(Text Message Continued)
You go beyond words. You're an
entity... A magician... An
alchemist... A constellation that
brightens the darkest of skies.
You’re the creator of the
woman who gave me life.
You’re the origin story of our
beautiful family that will
continue to grow as the tree in
front of your house. I’m not
sure if I’ll make it to say
goodbye and I will forever
regret not seeing you prior...
but I want you to know that I
love you. Always. And I pray
that you find peace knowing
that we’re all going to be okay.
We’re gonna heal from this
because you created some of
the strongest individuals I’ve
ever met. You’re an Angel.
My Angel.
Photo courtesy Joey Harvey.