Carmen: My Mom
July 27th, 2009by Reno J. Romero
LAS VEGAS, NV -
I moved back to Vegas from Charlotte over a year ago. The reasons? Too many. But one of them was that my mom (my grandmother actually) was battling cancer and I wanted to be by her side. I spent many sad nights on the east coast thinking about what she was going through. It hurt like nothing I ever felt before. I felt like a horrible son.
A few months back I lost her. Gone forever. My mom.
A couple of days ago I was speaking to a good friend of mine and my mom came up and before I knew it I was crying like a baby. Tears poured out of my eyes, memories crushed my chest, and I began to tell her what this woman meant to me.
And she meant everything.
I told her she was a great friend.
I told her that she was funny.
I told her she was intelligent and feisty.
I told her that my mom held a certain sadness in her walk, that some hurt was behind her smile, her beautiful brown eyes that were lined with curly eyelashes.
I told her she loved the song Layla and was a great cook.
And I told her that I was one of her favorites. That we had a great connection, had some heated debates, had some great laughs, danced in the kitchen, and read One Hundred Years of Solitude together.
We loved the book and before she passed she bought me Gabo’s latest work.
Oh, she also loved literature, was a voracious reader.
“I thought you’d like this, honey,” she said, handing me the book.
She also called me honey. And baby. And Rene. And Reenie.
I told my friend I hadn’t written about my grandmother since her passing, that I couldn’t. But she encouraged me to.
So, here it is.
Two days before she passed we had our last conversation.
We talked openly that our time was up. That we wouldn’t dance ever again, that she wouldn’t cook for me ever again.
I didn’t cry.
For some reason I couldn’t.
But I realized the moment, seized it, and gave her the best goodbye I could.
“So, this is it, baby,” I told her. “And I want to thank you for your time, your love. It was fun and an honor. You’re a beautiful woman and a great mother. Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you so much. So, goodbye it is. Goodbye, Carmen.”
And that’s how it went.
Two days later she passed with tears coming down her face.
I kissed her cold skin and brushed her face. I kissed her lips and tears fell landing on her neck.
My days haven’t been the same since.
I miss her.
A lot.
But like my friend reminded me that my days with Carmen were good days. That I still have that. And I do.
But I wish I had a few more.
One more dance.
One more dinner.
One more kiss.
One last play of Layla.
But that’s not possible.
Only in memory.
And that’s all I have now.
That’s it.
This one is for you, Carmen.
I hope I did OK.
Tags: Carmen, Love, One Hundred Year of Solitude, Reno J. Romero, The Nervous Breakdown
My brother.
You know I hope
and long
and hope
there is a place
where everything
you ever loved
and lost
comes back for good.
a land of endless agains
I want to believe that so bad
but it’s hard.
I dont know.
I just know that I
hope
You did good Reno
you did real good.
i hope too, sir. i really do.
then: one more dance. i more kiss.
see you around, 11. thanks.
i more kiss?
the ghost of carmen messing me up.
she was a doll.
you would have liked her.
I hope when
we cross the river
to that other place
there are
endless dances
and kisses without end
here’s to the place of no “was”
Wow. It’s heavy to watch someone die. Beautiful that you got your last words in the way you did. Many people don’t get the opportunity. I watched my Grandma Happy die for 10 years. She had Parkinsons. Started calling me David toward the end (which is not my name). I’m grateful that I got to have my last words with her, whether she understood them or not. I put them out into the universe, and that takes some of the pain away. I still cry like a baby every time i hear “10,000 Days” by Tool.
grandma happy.
what a great name.
i know your real name, know it’s not david. yours is a lot better. thanks for reading, my friend.
oh, i know that song. now it will brings more to the table.
Not a Rush lyric, I promise. Maynard James Keenan:
Please forgive this bold suggestion, but
Should you see your Maker’s face tonight,
Look Him in the eye, look Him in the eye, and tell Him:
“I never lived a lie, never took a life, but surely saved one.
Hallelujah, it’s time for you to bring me home.”
His dying words to Judith Marie (in the song, at least)
Damn. Should read “his words to a dying Judith Marie”. Maynard doesn’t die (SPOILER).
those are great words. great. thanks, phat b. i think you’re grand.
You and Rich have got me on a real downer this evening.
A beautifully written downer, at least.
I hate thinking about death— at least in the family. I think about my own death and hope I get to 50 (as a minimum).
She sounds like a wonderful woman; when the good die I can’t help but hope for an afterlife.
sorry, sir. when i woke up this morning i didn’t think i’d write this. AND, i try a keep my writing on the light side of things. thanks for chimming in, my man.
oh, you’ll hit 50. no problem. stay away from booze, smokes, bad women, and rush.
then it’s a lock.
later.
always,
r
Yes, usually your stuff is more upbeat and entertaining; it’s good to mix up a little I guess.
I could live without Rush, I do live without smoking although beer and bad women might be a bit trickier?
What if I drink light beer and just watch bad women from a certain distance, predetermined by a judge?
You did so good, Reno. Carmen will be smiling at this. And smiling at you.
I recently wrote a piece on this site about my grandparents and even though my Nan has been dead for fifteen years, I still feel her loss keenly.
But like James Michael says, in the end - there are dances and kisses and laughter waiting for you. Lots of kisses and neverending hugs.
you know, zara, i hope there’s gonna be more dances and kisses.
i really. but i don’t know if that’s the case.
but like, jmb, i hope.
i promise the next post will be on the lighter side.
hell, i need it more than ever.
we carry on.
It sounds like Carmen was a wonderful mother who raised a sensitive, caring, talented person who keeps her alive with beautiful writing.
That’s the best we can do for our loved ones until we see them again.
PLM-
thank you very much. sometimes i do think she did a good job. i’m glad you heard a bit of her story.
(carmen also lead a crazy life. married over five times, etc!)
what a woman.
My heart aches for you, Reno. I watched my dad die. Hard to find words.
thanks, erika. my heart aches too and i figure it will forever. but we did have great times. she thought i was goofy and always called me a “character.”
she was the real character.
sorry to hear about dad. my father is alive but we had a falling out. so he’s gone, too.
sheesh.
what a wild ride, eh?
geez.
Yeah. He died five years ago today. This evening I saw the brightest rainbow I have ever seen. It was on the heels of this massive mountain storm. Hail, rain, lightning shaking the floors. Sounded like D-Day. And then the rainbow. My mom and I had a good cry out on the deck and then came inside. He put the smile in pretty much all of my family memories.
Sorry to hear about your dad. Life…I can’t figure it out.
She sounds like a special person, Reno, who gave you a lot. And I guess that just makes it harder when, inevitably, they have to go. I’m sorry to hear about your pain, and your loss… but at the same time, grateful to hear that you had such a person in your life.
simon-
they say that writing makes things better, easier. that it’s a process for healing, etc. and it is. i do feel a little better today. and i smiled at a memory i had w/ carmen - us sitting in the bar and having some drinks and playing video poker.
(see, she was also a gambler…)
those were good days. i’ll hold them close. i have to.
thanks, partner. hope all is well.
Reno,
She would have been so proud to read this homage to her.
It’s touching and wonderful.
I want to believe that she can hear it if you read it, aloud, or just in your head.
The words would blow softly past her and she could hear them.
She would be pleased.
When enough time has passed that you can again speak of her,
I, for one, would love to hear some stories about her.
Some good interesting stories about your mom who raised you.
Sometime you’ll be ready.
irene-
i hope she would be proud. and someday i’ll write her story. i begged her for years to write hers for me. but we ran out of time.
thank you so much for your heart. i adore you.
i hope we’ll meet again. i want that more than anything.
always,
reno
You did do good, Reno. And you obviously inherited her intelligence and feisty-ness and literature love. Dances and kisses in the afterlife, next life, any and all of it. I would love more stories when you’re ready too.
MLP-
thanks, sis. i will write more carmen stories. i have to. so here’s to more dances w/ those lovable ghosts. i miss her. and love her. i hope to see her again. and hope to see you some day.
Hey what can I say? ( Hands held in the air, head cocked to the side, warm eyes filled with love)
You never let me down. And I’m sure Carmen would be pleased and shaking her ass with her fingers in the air after hearing this story. YOU, Reno, are a gift to all who know you, and as much as she blessed your life, you blessed hers.
Cheers to you Reno.
Ciao
Chris
chris-
i will try and never let you down. but keep and eye on me: i’m a trickster and like stirring up some shit…
you prompted all of this. and it feels OK. carmen was cool and i wish you met her. but you met her daughter and that’s pretty damn good. i think you know this.
so on the road it is. bakersfield in the distance. perhaps, a beer or two - a toast (like mr. haney suggested) for that chick who stole my heart and made me laugh my ass off.
thanks for reading. now: more stories. coming from the north and sending them out like kites. gonna be a hoot. thank you, chris. really.
What a wonderful portrait put into words by you. You did do ok!
Love you, Jim
jim!
thanks you handsome devil. love you. see you soon. on the wire. on the tube. in the flesh. we’ll get it done. thanks.
your pal,
j
Thank you son, that was beautiful. I’m sure she’s smiling. Love you. Tully.
tully-
it was a tough write but a good process. glad you liked it. love you more than love. kiss jake for me. i mean: isn’t he sexy?
Oh yes.
Very touching, Reno. My condolences.
About not crying: in 2006, I lost someone who was very near and dear to me–an on-off girlfriend of many years–and I was strangely numb when she died. I didn’t understand it. Then, maybe a week later, I was talking about her to a friend, and I teared up. It continued that way for a while — in fact, when I first met Brin Friesen, I got teary over Kerry as we were drinking at a bar in SF. But that was partly because Kerry had wanted–in vain–to make a trip to SF before she died, so I felt a bit like her ambassador.
But this is all to say that grief, as with so many things, works in mysterious ways.
We’ll raise a toast to Carmen when next we see each other, my friend.
duke-
i hear you. this was my third lose that floored me. first my uncle who penned me reno (family nickname: rene), then my high school buddy, then this.
grief? i haven’t figured it out. probably never will. but that’s part of the human experience. so i’ll deal. and have been. sorry about kerry. couldn’t imagine the wave of sadness that came at you. but hey: we carry on.
have to.
i’m gonna see you in a couple of weeks and am smiling because of it. we’ll get you back to L.A. trust me. thanks, dude.
Genuinely touching, and excellent you two read One Hundred Years together.
Not many of us get to say goodbye to a loved one in the way you did — tears of joy she shed. You did really well, Reno.
My heart goes out to you in a big way: my mother-in-law is dying of brain cancer and it is the worst thing in the world to watch this vibrant woman waste away so quickly, and for us to be completely helpless. Still, we try to make her laugh.
jim-
we had so much fun sharing 100’s notes. gabo is great and that write pulled us closer. sorry about your mother-in-law. too sad. way too sad.
thanks for reading. i promise the next post will be about something light, silly, and probably goofy since that’s what i am.
cheers, jim. and thanks.
okay,
r
Oh, Brother Reno. You broke my heart with this one. But it was a good kinda break. It makes me happy that you were so close to your Mom. And it makes me happy that she was a reader, and that the two of you were able to share so much.
She may be gone in the flesh, but definitely alive in the spirit, my friend.
thanks, my man. she was a great chick. she would have loved your hat. see you soon.
WOW! Made the mistake of reading your wonderful story about my mama(your mom) at work…..I’m a mess. But I really don’t care.The tears come down freely, and I don’t care. I miss her something awful Thank you for the beautiful words son. Granny would be proud. Love you-mum.
sorry mom! miss her too much. i smell her everyday and somtimes it’s too much to take. but it’s gonna be OK. i’m sure of this. i know this.
Oh, Reno, you did real good. This is a beautiful tribute to your grandmother.
You never know the good you’ll do when you let these words out into the world. I got a comment from a woman who worked with my grandma Faye back in the 70s! It made me cry all over again to read her comment, and remember how much my Grammy meant to me.
And now I’ve got tears in my eyes for my Grammy again, and your Mom, and all the people we love who go away too soon.
If I could reach across the country, I’d give you a big hug.
hi, autumn. thank you so much for the kind words. people have been so kind on this post. we’ve all had someone die. that’s it, period. thanks for the hug. perhaps one day you’ll get to see grammy one day. that would be nice.
okay,
r
Reno,
Your words never sieze to pull at my heart.
This piece, in particular, was beyond any words I can properly articulate to praise it.
My grandfather died a couple years back but it still feels like it only happened yesterday.
I considered him more my father than my real father. Still do.
Unfortunately he was taken with out a warning. One day he was here and the next day gone.
I never got to say goodbye to him and thank him for being my rock, my father, my defender, my protector but wherever he might be, I am sure he knows. As I am sure that Carmen would be moved by the words you have written about her.
Anyhow we will have to toast to these beautiful human beings which made our lives so much better when we meet.
erika-
hey: you’re too kind and i’m happy this worked for you. sorry you didn’t get the chance to tell your grandfather bye. that’s the one thing i’m happy for. i told her bye. we had one last conversation. thanks for reading and i’ll keep trying to write stuff you like. it’s my pleasure. cheers, erika.
Oh Reno.
Your writing makes me feel like I missed out on a beautiful life force. Please except my condolences on your hearts loss.