Dear Abuela,

Dear Crucita, 

I often wonder what you were like… How our relationship would be if you were alive by the time I was born. There was a picture of you in the sala next to the obscene amount of knick-knacks Mommy loved to collect. Your photo stood out as you were displayed on the shelving unit. I spent most of my weekends carefully dusting off the shelves as I sung the songs of Whitney and La India. I always admire this photo of you. Your strong posture as you looked off to the distance, standing on a NYC rooftop dressed in a soft pink cardigan with a fashionable floral scarf around your neck. You looked to be in your late 20’s or early 30s. I made sure never to wipe your photo with water and soap, I was afraid it would erase your face. I would speak to you in my mind as I cleaned your photo asking questions as if you were going somehow going

to say something back. Mommy often spoke of you, more of the bad than the good. She didn't believe you loved her, Mommy had the pain of agony in her eyes as her mouth said the words that fell off her tongue like a ton of bricks. I didn't know what to believe. I was told differently by 

Wendy, she was the first born from Mommy and was the only one who got to know you in physical form. I guess I will never know the truth…. From time to time Mommy would mention how much I reminded her of you. One day I was singing in the bathroom fixing my hair, Mommy passed by and said you used to do the same. I enjoyed hearing about you and asked as many questions as I could. I wished I would have asked Mommy more than surface questions before she passed in 2010. I only knew your first name,Cruzita, which is not a common name in America. On the island of Borinquen, it means “little cross”. When Wendy passed in October 2019, I made it my mission to find out more about our family history, mostly to find out about you. On my journey, I found where you were buried by pure luck with the little information I had about you. The woman who worked at the cemetery confirmed Mommy was the plot holder and you were buried there on December 11, 1971. A rush of a memory suddenly came into focus as I walked towards your grave. I was brought back to being a little girl standing in front of a huge tree. The sun shined through the leaves on a warm spring day. I stood over your grave with no tombstone. I wiped away some of the dead leaves, placing white flowers on top of your grave as I kneeled. I prayed to you, thanking you for coming to New York. You are the reason I am here today. I will continue to learn more about you and the history of our ancestors, and write about our stories using our voices. 

Te Amo, 

Krystal