Letters to the Past and the Future

Dear Minga, my grandmother’s mother:

The last time we saw each other, I was seven and you were 94. You had silver hair, deep wrinkles, and a soothing voice. Then you hugged me and said, “Look at you, a new generation.” Though your name was Etelvina, my mother called you Minga when she was little, and the nickname stuck because you thought it was adorable.  

I'm so sorry your marriage to Antonio, my great-grandfather, didn't last. In 2017, I asked my grandmother for more details. Antonio fell in love with you, and you felt the same, so you two got married and had my grandmother within a year. But later in 2017, my grandfather died suddenly and when that happened, my grandmother's Alzheimer's took a nosedive, and she couldn't remember more details. So, I did my own research and I found Antonio's family. They're in Guayaquil and we stay in touch often.

Antonio’s family is Jewish. You were very Catholic. You could name every saint and their patronage. You slept with a drawing of St. Anthony under your pillow and prayed the rosary every day. But your family didn’t approve, and the marriage was annulled. Years later, you dated another man, who was also Jewish, but you never married him, maybe because of your nosy family. In 1974, you were walking through the streets of Guayaquil with my mother, and he immediately recognized you and he blushed deeply. Sometimes I wish he or Antonio had been with you when you died. I still remember that dark day. It was February 17, 2001. A relative called and before I even handed my mother the phone, I knew you were gone. The last time I was in Ecuador, I took a picture of your tombstone. Psalm 121 is inscribed under your name. It’s about God watching over people, but what I wonder is if you’re watching over my future child. 

Dear Ámerica, my grandfather’s mother:

In 1934, the circus was in your neighborhood. My great-grandfather Alcides worked at the ticket booth. He was busy selling ticket after ticket and in the crowd of eager people, he saw you. He ditched the ticket booth and spoke to you all night. The next day, you two eloped and made your own circus act with knives and fire. But soon, you got pregnant with my grandfather. 

You were never able to have another child. Alcides had been married before and had four children with his ex-wife, but you wanted at least one more. Instead, from all the emotional pain you endured, you lost your hair, gained weight, had mood changes, and on occasion, full blown rage, once to the point that you almost poured boiling water on Alcides. It pains me that you tried everything you could for a second baby, but you never got your wish.

When you got bladder cancer, you were in your hospital bed pulling out your IV and oxygen tubes. The day you died, Alcides changed. He was a writer, mostly of poems and songs, and after your death, he stopped writing. “Ancla de Amor,” the hit song he wrote for your sixtieth birthday, is still played on Ecuadorian radio and TV stations today. I have the original draft of the lyrics in my desk. The final line of “Ancla de Amor” is “Only our love is immortal.” How true it is. Even in 2021, Ecuadorian artists still sing about the love you two shared. 

You died three years before I was born. I met Alcides a few months before he died. He was 94 and he held me and said, with heavy tears in his sweet eyes, that I looked just like you. And I really do look like you, especially now as an adult. I have a portrait of you, taken in 1945, and it's like seeing myself in black and white. It's a little creepy to be honest. 

When my mother was little, you would cuddle with her and tell her funny stories, like, “Today, I woke up and turned into a giant peacock. Again!” Sometimes I picture you in an afterlife, cuddling with my future child, and sharing stories until it’s time for me to take over. 

Ruth, my father’s mother:

It was September 2005 and Hurricane Katrina had just devastated Louisiana. Then Hurricane Rita formed in the Gulf of Mexico and Houston panicked. Almost the whole city evacuated and the drive to San Antonio was 12 hours instead of three. My father drove through the sweltering night and argued with my mother for the whole trip. I held a pillow over my ears, but it didn’t block out their voices. A year later, they finally divorced. 

We arrived at Uncle Elias’ house and he took us to the famous San Antonio Riverwalk. I was very drowsy, but the blaring ringtone of my father's cellphone jolted me awake. The caller said you died from a sudden, massive heart attack. My father and Uncle Elias sobbed in each other’s arms. The news hit me differently though. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy. I was relieved. 

I still remember that time in 2002 when you flew from Guayaquil to Houston to visit. The first thing you said to me was, “Your cousin Michelle is much taller and prettier than you are.” And when I was four, I was at a mall with you and there was a Christmas train going around the building and you made me ride it alone, despite me begging you not to put me on the train. When the ride ended, you called me a coward. You said and did many, many other things I try not to think about, yet sometimes I do. I know why you didn't like me or my siblings. You often clashed with my mother, and you took your anger out on us. I never understood why you couldn't see me as part of you. For years, I thought perhaps I was a bad granddaughter. Maybe I wasn’t affectionate or kind enough to you. I have another memory in which my father told me to hug you and I immediately answered, “No.” You gasped and responded, “How dare you refuse to hug your own grandmother?” I stayed silent and hugged you, only to appease my father. 

Yet, despite our strained relationship, you taught me a lesson about future motherhood. 

For as long as I live, I will never, ever speak to my child the way you spoke to me. 

Dear Eloisa, my mother’s mother:

You’re in bed all day with hospice caregivers by your side. Whenever I visit you, you stare at me with squinted eyes, like you recognize me from somewhere.  

My grandfather saw you at a political rally. You made a speech against government corruption, and he fell in love with your words and soon, with you. I'm sorry he satisfied himself with numerous affairs during your marriage. I'm deeply sorry for that day in 2009 when I visited you two and he said, as you sobbed, “Darlene, you have another aunt.” As your Alzheimer's progressed, you forgot how to brush your teeth, how to fold clothes, and how to cook, but you never forgot about his affairs, especially the one that produced my secret aunt who is only three years older than me. In your younger years, you owned a convenience store in Guayaquil and you also ran my grandfather's dental office. You worked from dawn to night to keep the family businesses going. My grandfather, on the contrary, liked his leisure time, yet he hardly ever spent it with you. I wish I could go back in time and make him be the husband you deserved.  

After he died, your Alzheimer’s went from a slow progression to full speed. One day, you talked to your sofa, thinking it was your mother, Minga, and you were so happy to see her again. Sometimes I’d catch you dancing to music that wasn’t playing or walking around your living room in your underwear. Then, in summer 2019, you begged me to take you to church because you needed to talk to God. So, when I had a free afternoon from work, I eased you into my car and took you to a chapel inside a nearby hospital. The moment you saw the altar, you dropped to your knees and said, “Help me, God! There’s something happening to my mind, and it keeps getting worse!” Until that moment, I had no idea you knew you were sick and my heart broke. 

If you pass away soon and you see my child in a heavenly realm, I hope your memory is restored, and you recognize your features in your great-grandchild’s face.

Dear Hector, my mother’s father:

In 2008, you had a mild heart attack due to partially clogged arteries. The day of your surgery, you told me, “Darlene, mi niña, take me home.” I refused, but minutes before you were given anesthesia, you bolted from the bed and ran out of the hospital in your paper gown. Since you bailed on your surgery, your second heart attack in 2017 killed you. 

The night before you died, I held your hand in the ICU. You had an oxygen mask on, and you couldn’t speak, so you scribbled on a piece of paper, take me home. You were too weak to escape on your own this time. To this day, I wish I had stayed with you instead of going home to sleep in my own bed. You could have died in my arms rather than dying alone. 

I miss the drives we would take, with me driving because you were terrified of driving and only did so when you didn't have a choice. We'd talk about topics from politics to history to your favorite topic: Fiddler on the Roof. You adored the song “If I Were a Rich Man,” and though your English was limited, you knew all the words. You always stood by your opinion that Topol made a better Tevye than “arrogant Zero Mostel.” You’d sing lines from “If I Were a Rich Man,” and then talk about the things you'd do if you were a wealthy man. You’d buy a house with twenty bedrooms, new cars for your grandchildren, and shiny jewelry for your beloved children. And, you loved saying, you’d hire me as your full-time chauffeur so I could drive you around all day and we could talk more and more. That, you said, would be the sweetest thing.

My favorite memory is when you would “argue” with babies. Babies loved your silly face, and they’d always point at you, and you’d point back and say, “Where’s my money, you rascal?” If they kept babbling, you’d keep the conversation going with phrases like “Tell it to me straight, where’s my money? I have bills coming soon” or “Hey, don’t talk about my wife like that.” To me, Abuelito, watching you argue with my future baby would be the sweetest thing.

Dear Child: 

Before I met your father, I worked at a preschool. I took care of kids ranging from newborns to four years old. I was about to start grad school and I desperately needed extra money. I applied for the job, despite having no experience, and they hired me on the spot. 

Four months into that job, I met your father on a blind date set up by some of my college friends and his brother, your Uncle Patrick. I'll be honest and admit I didn't want to have kids back then. I adored the kids I cared for but taking care of kids full-time sounded challenging. But one day, your father visited me at work. I had five or six kids, and he hopped into the classroom and played with them as if they were his own. My perspective changed right away. I officially wanted to be a mother and I wanted him to be your father. 

When we got married in 2018, we decided to have a kid within two years or so. 2020 was the plan and then a pandemic came. We were raised in churches which constantly told us the world was ending and a pandemic made us think they might be right. Downhearted, we put kid plans on hold. The world felt like a dangerous place and we wanted to wait until it was better. 

Your father recently told me about a dream he had. He said we were in our kitchen, and I was washing dishes and he was drying them. Then, he noticed I was pregnant. He smiled, cried a few joyful tears, cleared his throat, and commented, “You and the baby look so beautiful.” 

I’m not pregnant, but the time is coming sooner than later. Maybe you’ll be here on earth next year or the year after. Can you see us from where you are right now? Do you see us worrying about your future and your health? Are you considering other, less anxious people to be your parents? Do you ever wonder if we will love you?

My child, you don’t need to wonder about that. You are not even close to being here with us, yet we already love you with all our souls and our hearts. 

Darlene P. Campos is a novelist for young readers. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading, exercising, and going to museums. She is Ecuadorian-American and lives in Houston, TX with her husband. Visit her website at www.darlenepcampos.com