“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.” – Henry David Thoreau
It has been quite a while since I last saw her. Yet, every time feels like the first and the last. The fear of losing her always lingers. I look at her nervously, pretending that everything is fine. I am that little girl waiting for her at the train station. Slowly, she walks towards me, and I feel her hug like a warm blanket protecting me. I am stunned, holding every minute around her. She looks the same as always, happy and serene. I am in a rush of emotions; should I tell her? I must say to her what happened. She has always been there for me like my mother, confidant, and first friend.
My parents spent much of their youth travelling. My dad had a bright future ahead as an engineer, and my mum was young and beautiful. Together, they conquered life. Meanwhile, I spent a lot of time in my grandma’s home. Her memories, as did her images and scents from her home, filled my brain.
Every summer, she would pick me up from Mexico City, and we would take the train to Aguascalientes. The trip was an adventure for me, munching on tacos as we gazed at the mountains. I held her hand tight and felt invincible side by side. Life was simple, and I only needed her to feel whole.
Lupita was born during the Guerra Cristera in México. It was a civil conflict between 1926 and 1929. The dispute stemmed from tensions between the Catholic Church and the government. These tensions were particularly over the government’s policies that limited the Church’s power and religious freedom. Catholic citizens, known as cristeros, took up arms against the government in defense of their faith. The war ended with a negotiated peace, though the underlying tensions between the Church and State continued for many years. My grandmother lived in the middle of the conflicted area, in a small village in the mountains of Zacatecas.
On those train travels, she shared tales about her childhood. Her mother and other neighbors buried the girls in the backyard to hide them from the soldiers. The armies took thousands of women, never to return. She was beautiful and sharp. Not long after that, she met my grandfather, who was a tailor. They married and moved to Mexico City, where they lived in the suburbs in a very modest way.
Happiness soon became a burden. My grandfather drank heavily and was jobless. My grandmother had to work and take care of the kids. Not so different from the lives of many families in Mexico. My grandfather, who I never met, died young, leaving my grandma a widow with seven children to raise. Her life has been tough. I have all these images from her coming back from work. Regardless of how many admirers she had as a young widow, She remained single. In her own words, a woman should live alone.
When I was born, my parents struggled as well. My father was ambitious, driven and hardworking to give us a good life, the high life. They travelled a lot, enjoying the lifestyle his work provided. They would leave me and my sister, Paola, with my grandma for weeks. She said I cried too much, and my grandma was the only one to calm me down. Even now, I find it hard to feel safe.
She spent all her free time with me, playing games, watching TV, and eating. She truly was my first friend in that wonderful life I had. My sister and I would stay whole seasons, and time was never enough with her.
She taught me how to love and be compassionate, primarily what being a friend means. Her influence has shaped who I am today. My other grandma was just as wonderful. Maria was born in the Sierra, in the mountains of Michoacán. As I mentioned earlier, she taught me to swim in the ocean. She let me float freely on the depth. Both women told me to be strong, my person, and never depend on anyone. Such bold and fierce women. They did not speak much; it wasn’t necessary. Actions speak louder than any lecture or any inspiring discourse.
But life has shaken me deeply, unveiling real pain. Before my sister Paola passed away, life felt relatively easy. I thought I had dealt with my share of pain. Yet, you never truly understand what real heartache is until you lose someone you love. After that, a transformation occurs. You can either drown in sadness or learn to love again. No matter what path you choose, you need friends along the way.
Paola is my soulmate. We were always together, inseparable. We faced the world as a united force. We lived life on our terms, and it frightened those around us. They saw us as two unstoppable girls, exploring every facet of the world and squeezing joy from every experience. I have so much to tell you about her. That is partly why I am opening the door to share her story. She won’t die in my mind; she is always there beside me, guiding my steps.
We created a universe rich with knowledge, music, and taste. It was magical until a devil spirit took her from me. I saw her walk towards a portal of light, her golden hair shimmering, her smile fading. She was gone, and my life came to a halt. How do I bring her back? How can I hold her again?
It has taken some time to write her name. I have refused to make her a victim of destiny. Instead, I imagine her as an adventurous traveller jumping from era to era. Her story is different from any other and deserves to be told. It is the only way for me to keep going. She is alive and breathing through these words.
The little Flâneuse journal 