Rios is director of the U.S.-Mexico Border Program, American Friends Service Committee. He lives in Chula Vista.
I have a tender memory of you cleaning the corn husks. The palm of your hand delicately brushes off the silky fibers that stubbornly cling onto the ribbed leaves. A bulky pot with hot water is set up in front of you. The steam rises from it as you pick out the softened leaves, one by one. There are stacks of corn husks waiting to be separated, soaked and washed. Every year we wash the leaves that will wrap the “masa” for the tamales.
Your favorite oldies-but-goodies play in the background. You hum and harmonize to “Hit the Road Jack” with Ray Charles. “¡Súbele al volumen!” And now, wherever I hear Ray Charles, you’re there, too. Suddenly you twist your wrists in the air and sway your torso, and your head bops smiling. You close your eyes as if to relish an ephemeral memory. It could be of you listening to a magnetic 8-track in your old Chevy many decades ago.
“¡Súbele al volumen!” you say again.
The younger grandchildren, who actively play in the background, crack up and laugh at your signature dance moves.
“¡Mira a Tata!” they exclaim.
And we all look at you because we adore how you move, cherishing your jubilance at family parties, at New Year Eve celebrations, and even now while in this yearly ritual of washing leaves for tamales, and it doesn’t matter if you’re sitting in the wheelchair twirling in place.
I want the songs to transport you to some other time, to prod your impaired mind to draw an emotional connection and evoke memories deeply embedded in your consciousness of yesteryears in Tijuana and San Ysidro. I want the music to suspend the forgetting and the slipping away that extend the distance between us, and a dimmer you. I want it to intervene so that no more dementia declines occur today, tomorrow, or ever.
Selfishly, I want it to be a crossing, to reach into what was your impeccable ability to memorize random details, have you return to us at this moment whole and miraculously reverse what doctors say is irreversible intellectual deterioration.
In the tender memory I have, you’re wearing a beanie that snuggles your head. It doesn’t match the worn knitted scarf wrapped around your neck tucked into your wool coat. But you are warm, and your brown skin emits a golden shine that allays a heavy Christmas grief I feel.
You are glowing and are not fragile today. You delight in having family around you, in hearing the younger grandchildren play nonsensical games, and the older grandchildren poke at them. The neighbors-turned-compadres wave from across the street, and you wave back, proclaiming, “¡Estamos haciendo tamales!” Indeed, it’s a proclamation of your health and that you are here.
It is early morning on Christmas Eve. My mom is in the kitchen. She orchestrates the laborious steps in this festive gathering. There is a cacophony of sounds from the dining room table. My sisters and sister-in-law are waiting for the cleansed corn husks.
I’ll clean them this year for us. I’ll play Ray Charles and you’ll be there with me.
