Mi sangre es me orgullo.

How do we measure our success?

I've found myself scribbling notes in a small notebook I've carried around since I left Funky Door where I kept a daily log of what I accomplished. Only now those small squares checked neatly with each task completed have been replaced with passing thoughts, stories that come in an instant and are left undeveloped. Brain fetuses, if you will. 

Andrew needs yellow onions. I miss my mother. His grandfather's hands seem so delicate now that he faces death. Download The Last Samurai's soundtrack, you've forgotten how much you've missed it until this exact moment. 

It's true, about your grandpa Joe I mean. The idea came to me when we were visiting him in Modesto. Your mother and Ana had left with Aaron to try and find the changing room for the baby, leaving your father, you, your grandparents and myself. Your father was too busying watching the game, blaring indefinitely on the TV perched atop the machines your grandfather was tied to. The two of you spoke of inconsequential things: the weather in New York, how tall Max had grown and what his plans for the upcoming holidays were. Sitting in the slopped plastic blue chair, I crossed my legs and trained my eyes on the bloated veins of your grandfather's arm rather than the shadows of his pale face. I wanted to blend away into the walls rather than endure another minute of feeling so absolutely isolated - at least your mother's family remembered my name, knew that I had graduated from college over a year and a half ago. But I was at a loss with your father's family. He himself had shown little interest in getting to know me, how could I expect his father to?

"Mare-e-l, is it?" I cringed, trying quickly to relax my face before they could perceive how the common mispronunciation still affected me. "Yes?" The pink of my palms turning white with anticipation. 

"How was Florida?"

I smiled and gave some bullshit answer. Who was I to be Debbie Downer when the man was on what could potentially be his death bed? No one - not even those who found out their father had cheated on their mother after 26 years of marriage and who was losing their family home and was unemployed without a dollar to their name - could compete with open heart surgery. It wasn't worth it. He nodded, pulling his night gown tighter around his exposed chest and turned to you and your father, rambling on about hot rods and car shows. 

That's when I saw your grandmother.

I don't know the circumstances under which your grandparents fell in love, nor am I aware of how they chose to raise their five sons. I'm not sure if it ever occurred to them during their life together if they were unhappy or if either ever doubted their faith in God. But in the few minutes I watched you grandmother shuffle her size five feet across the dirty hospital tiles, I saw a woman afraid of losing her husband. It was a quiet fear, but it filled the room despite her efforts to hide it. Sitting at the edge of your grandpa's bed, she twisted her hands, her eyes glassy as she fell in and out of the conversation she hadn't been invited to join. I couldn't tell you if she was afraid of death itself or being alone. Maybe it was having to face something completely out of her control. Whatever it was, it had taken her captive - robbing her of her courage and poise. I wish I could have been strong enough for the both of us. I wanted to shake your father and convince him to comfort her. I wish I could have been as personable as my mother in that moment, disregarding the emotional distance between us and taking her frail body into my arms. I wanted to ask her in what successes she had chosen to measure her life - maybe I could have returned to her in that moment all that she had lost and which seemed to spill freely among us.

I wish, but it nearly 8 o'clock and therefore time for your grandfather's sponge bath and medication. So instead of being strong, I averted my eyes and said goodnight and promised to visit with you soon. A promise as empty as I felt. 


Over these few months, I've put into question constantly what my successes would be. I want to know that if my heart were to give out at any moment, I would be proud of myself. Of my failures, my triumphs, my misfortunes, my decisions, my writing, my ability to love, all that I had seen and discovered. But stepping into the elevator, surrounded by cold stainless steel and the small whimpers of your tired niece, I couldn't account for any of those things. 


Who was I, really? And who could I choose to be? More importantly, how does one differentiate those two entities? 


I wish I could tell myself.