Wouldn't You?

A memory is small, but if someone you care about gave it to you, you want to stick around to carry it. I am here today to keep a memory alive for all of you.

Let's talk about Mrs. Gonzalez.

I remember her rosary. It wasn't ornamental, like some I had seen. But I had seen it in her hands enough times when she prayed, and she prayed frequently. As someone who wasn't raised in the same faith, it was always interesting to me to watch.

I had walked into the church Mrs. Gonzalez went to just to sit in the quiet. She had been there, and when we met, her smile was real. "I need some help getting around," she said. "Would you be willing to come check on me?"

I turned around to see if she was talking to someone else. When I realized this was meant for me, I said, "I'm not good at taking care of people." My bank account was always close to empty, and my apartment always quiet. Stacks of overdue library books sat on the table, and dirty clothes from the hamper overflowed onto the floor.

When I found myself in Mrs. Gonzalez's home, I counted at least a hundred house plants, three fat cats, and what felt like a thousand people. Some of them were dazed people who were there to "help" Mrs. Gonzalez, like me. In reality, she taught us how to cook, she fed us, and she made sure to always be there, even though she herself did not seem real.

I was the only one to watch her pray. She did this in the sun. She smiled like she knew who she was talking to, and why. I always moved quieter, since I was the only one around the house at that time. I did her laundry even though I never got around to doing my own. It's always easier to help someone else instead of yourself. The other person, it seems, always seems to be worth more. Mrs. Gonzalez made everyone feel like they were worth something.

The sun would catch the gray in her curls. She would smile as she spoke under her breath, nodding at places. The beads would move through her hand. When she was close to the end she would grow still, more solemn. Then her eyes would open, she would see me, and she would smile. "Come help me with dinner," she would say. "I think you get paid today."

Mrs. Gonzalez paid me more than I was worth. She is probably the reason I am still alive and able to speak to you all today. She pressed this rosary into my hand and told me to keep it safe for her, whether or not I used it for myself. She said she didn't want a big funeral. Instead, she said she wanted to make sure everyone was okay before she left.

I didn't fold all of my dirty clothes because of her, but I did wash a load and leave it on my bed to pick over when I needed a fresh outfit. I started changing my clothes because I cared how I looked. I tried to cook something Mrs. Gonzalez had shown me, and ended up with a new burnt smell in my apartment that my neighbors still complain about to this day. I accepted one of her house plants and put it by the window with the most sunlight. I scheduled a meeting with a therapist. I cleaned my fridge. I took my overdue books back to the library and paid my enormous fines. And I did all of this just so I could tell her about it.

I got an interview for a job. And then I got the job. I always made sure to go around to Mrs. Gonzalez's place to make sure she didn't use a knife when she cooked. Her hands shook too much but she never stopped moving. She was old but not completely ready to accept it. She wanted to help people but she never felt comfortable accepting help from those same people. To allow oneself to become dependent meant vulnerability. Mrs. Gonzalez bad been on her own for years, she told me. She didn't like to have anyone take care of her because she needed her control.

Mrs. Gonzalez rarely had any control over her life. Her parents told her where she could go to school, who she could be friends with, and who she could marry. She liked her husband well enough, but he died young, and they had no children. "That was the day I realized that I had no idea who I really was. All I had were other versions of myself. I had to be what other people expected me to be." Mrs. Gonzalez bent down to inspect the leaves on one of her plants. "I decided to get a job and go to college. My parents told me they would never speak to me again if I did this." She sighed. "That was when my life got quieter." Then she had gone into her house to turn on some music.

Mrs. Gonzalez had written, cooked, danced, and taken a small interest in photography. Many other men had come calling but she turned them all down. She didn't want anyone to tell her how to live her life ever again, she said. She just wanted to live as honestly as she could, helping where she could. The thought of going back to the person she had been before didn't terrify her; it made her angry. She had become the type of woman who worked her own way to the good points in her life, without leaning too hard on other people. Her independence was her own. Her independence was her hope. She gave this hope to other people and she gave her own kindness, her own love, to others as well.

I went through her house to collect some things she didn't want anyone from her family to find. Her other siblings had heard that she was gone, and they appeared quickly, making up for all their time spent away. They said they were entitled to their share of her estate. I told them to find an attorney and then hung up on them, one by one. Then I took a box and went through the house, collecting the pictures she didn't want them to see, the recipes she had made herself, her framed articles that she didn't want to share with the family that had forgotten her, and the plants that she knew her family wouldn't care about. I packed up her clothes, divided her jewelry, and talked with her attorney to go over the terms of her will. I was following her wishes exactly.

During the reading of her will, I watched Mrs. Gonzalez's family lean forward, expecting their fair share. They each got it: every member of the family received the sum of one dollar, no more, no less. Their reaction fuels me to this day. What was better was that they could legally do nothing about it except to accept it.

Mrs. Gonzalez had her family turn her back on her, so she built one. She found out what it was like to be on her own and to live her life the way that she saw fit, without asking for permission. She gave people like me a purpose. She helped me see that you can live if not by faith, then out of a small sense of spite.

That's why I'm here: because, if one person took the time to care for you just because you simply looked like you needed help, then you should count yourself blessed. And if that person asked you to stay happy, or if this were too much, just to keep moving, if only to carry something small as a memory of that person around, you would do so. Wouldn't you?