A year ago, Sharon and I took a trip to Mexico. At the time, we had no idea if we'd stay together. To be honest, I think we were just going because our therapist said it might be a good idea. It was. We just got back from an amazing repeat trip, an anniversary, as it were. For a week, we did nothing but lie on a beach, go to happy hour in a bar overlooking the ocean and eat incredible food. It was a much needed break, but by the end of the week we were ready to come back home. We missed our dogs. We missed our house. We missed our garden...all of which were being watched by my younger brother, Daniel.
We arrived home after dark, exhausted, where we were greeted by a happy flurry of dog, cat and brother. It was good to be home! All the animals were in one piece, if not slightly spoiled by a week with their Uncle Daniel. We grilled Daniel about the week. Had everyone behaved? For the most part. Wow, did you clean the floors? Why, yes he had! Were there any problems? No, everything was fine. How is the garden? Good. It looks incredible.
Sigh. Too dark to go and see for ourselves. It would have to wait for tomorrow.
After a night in our own bed, we got up, grabbed our coffee and headed out into the back. He was right. everything did look amazing. The pansies were having a color riot. Sharon's veggies were sprouting away and the fig monster (who got a winter buzz cut...more on that later...maybe) was sending out new branches and leaves. All was well.
Except for the succulents I had planted a couple weeks ago. The ones I'd picked and planted for one reason only: because they made me happy.
With the exception of a couple fragments, you could hardly even tell they'd ever been there. Sometime during the week, Holli (it must have been Holli) had chased a squirrel through the planter and obliterated my little succulent sanctuary. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't Daniel's fault. It was just a crazy dog and a squirrel doing what dogs and squirrels do. But I was suddenly in a dark place.
Why? I'd handled the destruction of the agapanthus just fine. Because I had made a decision about those succulents. I'd committed to them as something that made me happy. And they'd made me really happy. Silly happy. And now, I felt stupid for having allowed that to happen. I should've have known better than to be so happy about something so easily destroyed. I KNOW this lesson: "Never be too happy, because it will only hurt more when it's gone."
There are many, many things I remember about my abuelita. Wonderful things. Things I would never want to forget in a million years. Like the way she laughed. The way she moved through a kitchen, as if the entire room was just an extension of her arm. Like the way her hands felt in my hair and the way she'd take my arm when we were walking. Till the day I die, I hope I always think of her when I pour milk into my coffee or when I smell cream of rice. But this one thing, I wish I could forget -- the way she'd pull me aside and tell me with all the experience of age: "Cuidado, nene. Don't get attached. You're going to get hurt."
Even the best of us say stupid things. Even the smartest of us take those stupid things as gospel. But I will unlearn that lesson. I will start by admitting that being happy about my silly, weird looking succulents was fun and worthwhile, no matter how long they lasted. I will move on to telling myself I cherish how much I loved my grandmother, even though it will always hurt that she's gone. And I will finish this new lesson by being glad that Sharon and I have allowed ourselves to have another year together, to make it to another vacation, and to learn that it's okay to love the things we most fear to lose.
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