Until We Meet Again

June 9, 2025 – Journal Entry

In one month, it will be four years. Four years since you got sick. Four years since I last heard your voice. Four years since I ignored your calls—too many times to count.

Oh, how I wish I could go back! How I wish I would’ve picked up the phone instead of saying, “I’ll call her back later.”

Today is one of those days. I need you. I need to hear your voice.

I’ve already processed your death. I’ve grieved your loss. But your absence is like being underwater without an air tank.

No matter how much time passes, I still feel you. That’s how it is with madres y hijas. We share a bond beyond the cosmos—beyond death.

I miss your voice—and by God you had such a beautiful, powerful voice. It’s a voice I hear in my dreams. When my soul reaches out to yours, I hear your whisper: “Get up. Wipe your tears. You got this.”

I did you so wrong, my dear Madrecita. Every day since you left, I’ve felt regret. I regret ignoring your calls. I regret being a whiny baby. I regret letting my lingering childhood resentments, now so trivial, control how I treated you.

Most of all, I regret not seeing you in the way you needed and deserved. You were screaming to be heard, but we didn’t listen. I didn’t listen.

Not until you left and I lost everything—my health, my marriage, and my life as I knew it—did I finally see myself clearly.

I’m ashamed of what I saw and who I had become because of my trauma responses and a toxic relationship.

But you know that, don’t you? You know where I am and that I’m working every day to be the woman you always knew I could be—the woman you always fought for.

I only wish I didn’t have to walk this new journey without you. I wish I would’ve fought harder when you were alive.

Grief is funny. After going through all its phases, I’ll think I’ve reached the blessed stage of acceptance. There’s no doubt I’ve experienced the peace and relief that comes with acceptance. I’m not new to grief or loss, but I’ve never experienced it this way. I’ve never lost a mother.

Even though I’m no longer choking on rage or the bitter taste of injustice, I still yearn for you. I need you. I need your guidance—to feel your small fingers gently tickling my wrist and forearm. I need to hear you physically say, “Everything is going to be okay. Get up. Dust yourself off. Take a deep breath. Prepare for the next round. You’re no victim. You’re a warrior.”

Instead, all I can do is write here and speak my yearning to the universe, calling out to you in the spirit world—the world of our ancestors.

Today is the day I’ll do what I’ve avoided for four years. I’m ready to listen to and read your final messages. I tried last year, but it was too much—the pain too overpowering.

I was also busy choking on guilt and drowning in my failures as a wife, mother, grandmother, sister, and daughter.

I cocooned myself inside this powerful trauma wall at a young age, and although I worked to weaken its barriers, I remained stuck in that state between victim and survivor. I thought I had reached a warrior’s status, but I was so wrong. And I blamed you.

I blamed you as children do because it’s easy. Victims blame other victims because we can’t confront those who hurt us—the men who destroyed us before I even understood what that meant.

I chose men like those who hurt you, perpetuating our generational trauma. And like you, I chose him before knowing what I wanted or needed—before I found healing from all we had suffered.

Instead, I created a narrative, an interesting work of fiction—like one of my novels—for 25 years.

You saw me walking this path. You tried to stop me. But I didn’t listen. I never listened.

Oh, how I wish I had! But I listen now—with everything I have. I no longer speak over others. I no longer dive headfirst without considering the consequences. I no longer scream to be heard. More importantly, I apologize when I'm wrong.

I once wrote and published a poem about us being one person separated into two. I reached that conclusion before your passing but didn’t realize how true it would become.

That’s why you were so hard on me. Why you threw books at me and emphasized college. Why you didn’t want me pregnant or settling down young.

I’m so sorry for devaluing you when you only wanted the best…and when you needed me most.

Despite my many failures, you loved me unconditionally. I know you’re proud I’m finally taking responsibility, of being humbled.

My next step is finally confronting what I couldn't before, so I can move forward and forgive myself. I’m not going to lie. As I stare at your saved calls and messages, I’m sweating—in fear and shame. Because I know what’s there.

June 13, 2021

Hi, it’s your mom! I know you’re not feeling good. I’m going to the Farmer’s Market and can bring fresh veggies and fruits, along with some other goodies, to your door. I love you. Get better and call if you need anything.

June 16, 2021

Hi, it’s me again. I haven’t heard from you. I’m worried. Call me. Bye.”

I’m sorry, Momma. I was so sick after catching COVID-19 for the second time and didn’t feel like talking. But you weren’t just anyone.

Text Message: July 25, 2021

Hi, Mija. I just left a voicemail. I left some things for you and the kids by the door. I love you. Hope to hear from you soon.

I thanked you for the great things you brought me, but I was angry that you weren’t taking precautions. I told you there were reports of efficacy issues with the vaccine, but you wouldn’t hear it. You were vaccinated and boosted, and you had no plans to stay away from your kids, grandkids, and great grandkids—your reason for living.

However, I wanted you safe. I knew if you got sick, things would end badly. You had so many health issues, and hospitals never do right by us…

Text Message: July 28, 2021

Your brother tested positive for COVID. I just did my test, and it came back positive. I had the shot. I’m sure I’ll be ok. They say it doesn’t hit as hard.

Text Message: July 30, 2021

Mom: I’m having a hard time breathing, Mija.

Me: I’ll send you some hot teas and supplements now that are being recommended on a support site I’m on. Don’t sleep on your back. Sleep on your stomach and move around. I’ll send you a monitor to check your oxygen. If it falls below 80, call Steve.

Me to Steve: Hey, Cuz. My mom isn’t doing so well. I think she’s taking a turn for the worst. Please be on standby if I need you to help me convince her to go to the hospital.

Tears are really pouring down now, Ma. Reliving this hurts deeply. I went to your house and took care of you. I hated seeing the strongest woman I know so weak.

I feared sending you to the hospital for good reason. They kill our people before they heal us. That’s been the way for centuries. But we had no choice. You were falling fast.

I’ll never forget how the hospital staff treated you, because you were an older woman of color and they believed you to be unvaccinated. You never even hesitated when the vaccine became available, despite all the bad things that have happened to us and people like us.

Family Group Text Message: August 15, 2021

Me: Hey everyone. Mom’s here in the hospital, and they’re not treating her right. We’re going to always need someone here with her during visiting hours. Only one of us can be here, so let me know what days and times you can do.

Family Group Text Message: August 25, 2021

Tanya: Hey family, the hospital just notified me that they’re moving mom to the recovery center on Thomas Road.

Me: What? Why? She’s not better!

Tanya: That’s what I said, but they say she’s improving and will be better cared for there.

Me: Jerks!

Tanya: I know.

We tried stopping them from moving you too early. We believed Medicare coverage played a role more than anything. So, they sent you to a place where nurses were sweet and had good intentions. But they let things happen that shouldn’t have—like not securing your G-Tube properly. I was so angry when I came in and found it loose with no one around. God only knows how long that tube was loose or how often that happened.

Family Group Text Message: September 24, 2021

Me: You guys need to come to the hospital. I just got here, and the doctors were waiting for me. The virus has completely overtaken mom’s lungs. I just saw the X-rays. Black everywhere. There’s no hope. Those bastards. I think maybe it happened again—her tube getting loose. But I have no proof…the X-rays are like others I’ve seen—where the virus overtakes all.

Our family all came that day to say their goodbyes. The director of the hospital allowed it because he knew I knew they had messed up. He tried to make it look like he was doing us a favor, because after all, you were the matriarch of our family.

But we knew better. We thanked him and smiled—like good, ignorant brown people—because we needed to be with you in the end. So many families weren’t as lucky.

For hours, you fought to stay with us after they took all the machines away. The nurses came in without a word, smiled at us in that “I’m so sorry" way, then shifted your body so you could pass faster.

I wanted to scream at them, but that wasn’t the time. You needed me, not my rage. It was our time to be there for you, like you always were for us. Tanya, Steven, and I held your hand until the very end…then we cried and raged later at the injustice of it all.

When one of the nurses came to me afterward and said, “I’m truly sorry,” I wanted to pummel her face, and all the faces of people like her. The people who thought they knew better—on both sides. The people who still have no clue today how many of our people lost their lives because of ignorance.

You fought your whole life against this tragic system, my dear Momma. And in the end, you died tragically, like our beloved Gabby, who was only 2 years old when a doctor used a dirty instrument to perform surgery on her.

At least you’re with her and our beloved familia now—living in peace and harmony.

Because of that, I forgive. I forgive so I don’t move forward in rage or hate. I won’t be a product of that system that works overtime to shackle us. I’m better than that—than them. You raised me better.

Instead, I walk this path of healing and discovery, where your legacy is front and center. I know my fight is far from over, but yours is, Momma. We got you.

Rest now and enjoy the big fiesta with our beloved familia and ancestors in the beautiful world of ever after. May it be festive, the food delicious and made with love, and the musica off the hook!

Until we meet again…