In memoriam Margarita Elena Rodriguez Aleman, 1952-2026

Phantoms pass by in a flutter.
Petals hang in the air.
Something about their colors reminds me;
I have been here before.
I scan the blurry room until I see her.
The casket’s ajar,
Her figure is still within.
Her face, her body
All fluffed and pristine for the viewing.
That is when I notice my tears.
That is when I realize where I am.
I know I am dreaming,
So how come it feels so real?
So fresh.
I try to turn from the sight
But my feet remain glued in place.
Her sister stands from a pew.
Silently, she takes a tissue from her pocket.
I watch as she wipes lipstick from my abuela’s cold face.
Now I recognize her.
The woman who used to take me on adventures.
The woman I had called my friend.
Suddenly, her spirit surrounds me,
And I know she is with me,
cloaking me in her love.
And for a moment,
A brief, beautiful second,
I feel her embrace.

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Boxes are scattered around,
Disguising the home I had loved.
I scan the room for any remnants of her.
The chair she had loved is already packed away.
It was her throne.
I walk into the kitchen,
Believing, for a moment, that she will be there.
Cooking a Cuban meal or flan.
Alas, the room is empty.
I look for signs of her.
The photos of our family are absent.
Her pots and pans, missing from their posts.
Overwhelmed, I retreat from the barren room.
I force myself to enter her bedroom.
It remains untouched since the last day she was here.
The only room not packed.
The covers are neatly tucked into the frame.
Her purses hang on her closet door.
Even her toothbrush sits in its holder
As if awaiting her return.
I lay on her bed
And her perfume hits my nose.
A sweet fragrance, identifiably hers.
I roll over and engulf myself in the smell.
Eventually, I will have to rise.
I will have to help pack the rest of her things.
I will have to put her most treasured things into bland boxes.
But for now, Abuela, I lay in your phantom embrace.