Apr 06 '25

12 notes

Monday

The life-force of our formidable matriarch is waning, and her last request is to die at home.

Wednesday

So here we are, flown in from various corners of the country, back to the sun-bleached stomping grounds of our childhood. We’re nursing beers and recalling memories—that one time I dared Santi to kick a cactus and we spent days picking spines from his swollen foot; the Easter when Saraí shot me in the hand with a BB gun and my uncle’s punishment was that she had to stand still for long enough that I could return the favor. We’re in the yard soaking up warmth and watching our gaggle of doe-eyed kids frolicking in the old familiar places we did so many seasons of life ago. Our own parents are all seated in the shade on the dusty back patio, much like my grandparents used to do, watching us watch them. This is the spiral of time, no longer linear but at all once. I may be thirty-four, but I am also seven years old, and I am simultaneously already dead. I am a seed rooted in the core of my grandmother, as my someday-granddaughter has a history rooted inside of me.

Friday

I make her all of the traditional healing foods she forced me to eat postpartum (even though all I wanted was sushi). Warm broths, warm teas, warm atole. Warm feet, warm womb. That’s the medicine. She pushes the spoon full of simmering soup away from her mouth with one demand: “I want an apple fritter”. And so we, a baker’s dozen worth of grandchildren, dutifully pile into my brother’s pickup and drive the unpaved thirty miles back to town, which is really just a one-stoplight street with a gas station, a taquería, a donut shop, and a seedy rundown motel. We make it into the donut shop just before closing and secure the loot—one apple fritter, plus a couple dozen colorful donuts for the rest of us. We clear our plates, buzzing with the sugar rush. She takes one bite and soon closes her eyes; each sleep longer, each breath more labored.

Saturday

The angel of a hospice nurse, with her tattooed knuckles and curly magenta hair, says it probably won’t be too long now, but that people can surprise you, and that sometimes folks stick around until some unspoken query is answered. But grandmother is talking to ghosts who exist just outside the veil of the rest of our sights—her mother, her husband, her firstborn child who died before his first birthday—and says the dragons are coming to fly her away soon. We take turns kissing her forehead and tell her that it sounds like such a magical adventure is awaiting her on the other side.

Sunday

I have never feared death. The promise of a return to non-existence is a lullaby, not a threat. When death comes for me, I only hope it will feel like this. To die surrounded by three generations gathered around the hearth in laughter, tears, prayers, and love. To die warm. To die at home. What a gift.

What a rare and lucky end to a long life lived.

Monday

The life-force of our formidable matriarch is waning, and her last request is to die at home.

Wednesday

So here we are, flown in from various corners of the country, back to the sun-bleached stomping grounds of our childhood. We’re nursing beers and recalling memories—that one time I dared Santi to kick a cactus and we spent days picking spines from his swollen foot; the Easter when Saraí shot me in the hand with a BB gun and my uncle’s punishment was that she had to stand still for long enough that I could return the favor. We’re in the yard soaking up warmth and watching our gaggle of doe-eyed kids frolicking in the old familiar places we did so many seasons of life ago. Our own parents are all seated in the shade on the dusty back patio, much like my grandparents used to do, watching us watch them. This is the spiral of time, no longer linear but at all once. I may be thirty-four, but I am also seven years old, and I am simultaneously already dead. I am a seed rooted in the core of my grandmother, as my someday-granddaughter has a history rooted inside of me.

Friday

I make her all of the traditional healing foods she forced me to eat postpartum (even though all I wanted was sushi). Warm broths, warm teas, warm atole. Warm feet, warm womb. That’s the medicine. She pushes the spoon full of simmering soup away from her mouth with one demand: “I want an apple fritter”. And so we, a baker’s dozen worth of grandchildren, dutifully pile into my brother’s pickup and drive the unpaved thirty miles back to town, which is really just a one-stoplight street with a gas station, a taquería, a donut shop, and a seedy rundown motel. We make it into the donut shop just before closing and secure the loot—one apple fritter, plus a couple dozen colorful donuts for the rest of us. We clear our plates, buzzing with the sugar rush. She takes one bite and soon closes her eyes; each sleep longer, each breath more labored.

Saturday

The angel of a hospice nurse, with her tattooed knuckles and curly magenta hair, says it probably won’t be too long now, but that people can surprise you, and that sometimes folks stick around until some unspoken query is answered. But grandmother is talking to ghosts who exist just outside the veil of the rest of our sights—her mother, her husband, her firstborn child who died before his first birthday—and says the dragons are coming to fly her away soon. We take turns kissing her forehead and tell her that it sounds like such a magical adventure is awaiting her on the other side.

Sunday

I have never feared death. The promise of a return to non-existence is a lullaby, not a threat. When death comes for me, I only hope it will feel like this. To die surrounded by three generations gathered around the hearth in laughter, tears, prayers, and love. To die warm. To die at home. What a gift.

What a rare and lucky end to a long life lived.

Apr 06 '25

58 notes

Colors and textures of Australia

Apr 06 '25

1,610 notes

thenordroom

A muted color palette and smart storage in a small Stockholm apartment

Apr 06 '25

89 notes

Misaki Nagao

Apr 05 '25

16,513 notes

avicecaro

i want to shake many young women and say you can grow in private. and what i mean by that is that you don’t have to publicly self-flagellate when you don’t know something or when you say something a little insensitive or whatever else. you don’t have to report your Bad Thoughts and Ignorance to the crowd who waits to judge you. you do not have to pay penance. you do not have to issue public statements. nothing more is gained from burying yourself in shame than you could gain by thinking “oh i don’t know about this” and looking it up real quick, or thinking “hm, that wasn’t how i want to behave, i’ll do different next time” and then moving on with your life. no need to choke yourself with it.