A Tribute to My Abuelita

There’s no chance I’ll make it through this without crying. Very few things make me tear up: videos of people in the military returning home to their families, the movie Marley & Me, and the passing of my mother’s mother.

I was very fortunate to have my mother’s parents live under the same roof as me while I was growing up. Both of my parents worked when I was little, so my Abuelita was the glue that held our family together.

Marta was born on November 1, 1928, in Montevideo, Uruguay. She was the only girl among four siblings.

When I say Abuela didn’t speak English, I mean not even a lick. She moved to New York City with my Abuelo and raised my aunt and mother in Washington Heights. Everyone in the neighborhood spoke Spanish—so why learn English?

Unfortunately, my earliest memories of my grandfather are of him being sick. He was still living at home for a time but was later placed in a nursing home, where he was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia. My family and I would visit him in the Bronx every weekend and spend hours with him.

When he passed, his funeral was held on Halloween. My parents were friends with the funeral director, who came to our house in the hearse after the burial.

Kids were out trick-or-treating, and a parent said to my mom, 'Wow, you really outdid yourself for Halloween this year!'

She responded, 'I just buried my father,' and closed the door.

We laugh about it now whenever late October rolls around.

From 7 a.m. to 6 p.m., five days a week, Abuelita was the head honcho in the house. She woke my brothers and me up for school, making sure we were dressed in clothes with tags that had our names on them. No joke—every article of clothing had our name on it because she thought someone might steal our clothes. She spoon-fed us cereal every morning while we watched TV, right up until it was time to walk to the bus stop.

When we got home from school, she would be waiting on the porch for us. If it was raining, she’d meet us at the bus stop with an umbrella and towels to make sure we didn’t get wet.

As I got older, I didn’t want her waiting for me on the porch anymore. Since we lived so close to the middle school, everyone passed by our house and would see her standing there, ready to give me a big hug and kiss. I would tell her in Spanish to go inside so no one would see.

I look back on that and regret ever doing that to her.

Before bed, she would put on her readers and flip through her magazines. I would grab her glasses off her head, try them on, and pretend to be her.

As we both got older, Abuelita began to lose her memory. I would play songs she used to sing to me as a child or recite the alphabet to see if it would click. A couple of years later, she was placed in a nursing home because no one was able to care for her full-time.

For the eight years she was there, my weekends were devoted to picking her up in the city, bringing her home for the day, and then driving her back. When her dementia worsened, we had to stop bringing her home and instead spent just a few hours visiting her there. When it was time to leave, I would tell her I had to go back to school, but that I’d be back later.

My family became very close to the aides who worked there because we were so attentive to her. In many ways, the reason my grandmother lived so long was because of their care.

In my mind, I lost my grandmother twice: first, when she began to lose her memory, and again on March 3rd, 2024.

Although she no longer remembered who my mother and I were, a month before she passed I whispered in her ear, “¿Tú me quieres?” She cupped my face, kissed me, and replied, “¿Cómo no? ¡Mucho, mucho!”

I still choke up when I talk about her because of the impact she had on my life. I've saved her voicemails and listen to them regularly. She’s the reason I know how to speak Spanish and why Moana is one of my favorite movies. No one will ever make a chicken cutlet better than she did. She took care of my brothers and I while my parents worked to give us the life we have today. One time, she took in a dying bird from outside and put it in a box in our bathroom. That’s how big her heart was.

I would not be the person I am today without her.