I arrived at my parents’ house later than usual on purpose. I’ve learned – the hard way – that there are times when Mom doesn’t anyone around, much less having someone there to ask questions when she isn’t in the mood to talk.

Earlier in the day we learned that Luisa, Mom’s oldest sister, was in the hospital. It was unlikely that she would survive this bout of pneumonia because she had sepsis on top of that.

Tía Fina, the second oldest, died the previous March. Mom had not seen either of the California sisters in years. Traveling while confined to a wheelchair finally became too much for her. Because my aunts had their own health issues, communication between the sisters was limited to phone calls and posts by los primos on Facebook.

“Híjo, se mira muy vieja la pobre,” began the joke after looking at pictures on Facebook. “Tambien me creo yo muy joven ya que nunca me miro en un espejo. ¿Que dirá la gente que me encuentra hay por allí?”

Dad called earlier that afternoon.

“¿Negra, donde estas?”

“Pos en mi casa, ¿tu?”

“Vino tu Tía Dora pa’ avisarle a tu mamá que se está moriendo tu Tía Luisa.”

“Está muy malita la pobre.”

“¿Tu ya sabías?”

“Sí, me dijo Marci.”                                             

“Pos tu mamá está muy triste en su cuarto. ¿No sería buen idea que vinieras a estar con ella?”

One, if Mom wanted me, she would call me.

Two, how thoughtful of Dad to be worried about her!

Still, I knew better than to show up right after Mom got such news.

When I finally showed up at the house, Dad was laying asleep on the couch. The TV was off. The house was quiet, so I walked to her room at the back of the house.

“Oh mother dear!”

“Aquí estoy mi’ja.”

“What’cha doing?”

“Aquí con la misma chingadera.”

I went about the business of getting Dad’s room ready for the night, when Mom wheeled herself into his room.

“¿Que está haciendo tu papá?”

“He’s just laying there on the couch.”

“Oh.”

“Ma, did they tell you about Luisa?”

“Si, vino Dora en la tarde a decirme.”

She shared a little about her conversation with Dora. I  didn’t ask questions because Mom would tell me what she wanted me to know.

After a bit of time, we sat there not saying anything. Then, she turned to look at me and said, “I did something.”

“Oh, oh. What did you do?”

“Es que me dió mucho coraje con lo que me dijieron de Luisa.”

I laughed because I knew I was about to hear something good.  

“And then?”

“Pos nada, pero fuí pa’ la sala donde estaba tu papá y Marcos viendo la televisión.”

I must explain here and now that Marcos, bless his soul, is Dad’s friend. They met years ago when they both worked at the Peter Rabbit Grocery Store on the corner of Crocket Stree and 7^th Avenue, two blocks from their home. Marcos was in high school and got a part time job working under my dad.

We don’t know how they became friends again so many years later. Marcos was a nice enough man, and Dad kept him close. He’d take Dad out to eat, bought lottery tickets for him, and drove him around wherever Dad wanted to go.

After Dad’s cervical surgery, he was confined to the house more. But Marcos was loyal to Dad. They spent many, many hours watching Westerns on Grit TV at the house. He was always around.

Always.

Unfortunately, that type of loyalty bothered the crap out of Mom. She liked quiet. She liked being alone. But most importantly, she didn’t like westerns.

“¿Y luego?”

“Pos me fuí pa’ la sala y cruzé por enfrente de ellos donde estaban viendo la televisión.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“Entonces me metí como pude donde está plogueado el television y le estiré a los alambres hasta que se pagó todo el pedo.”

“What! And then?”

“Les grité, ‘¡Mi hermana se está moriendo y yo acá oyendo indios y caballos!’ Y luego me vine llorando pa’ mi cuarto.”

We laughed about it, and I told her that it explained Dad’s call asking me to come over.

Later, Mom went to prepare her dinner in the kitchen. Dad and I sat in the living room where he proceeded to tell me the plot of the last “movie de cowboys” he was watching that afternoon. I didn’t pay too much attention because the plot of these movies is always the same. I knew I could tune him out while I sent texts to friends or checked Facebook. It would be easy to jump back into the conversation.

At least that is what I thought until I realized he was explaining to me that he didn’t get to see the end of that movie. He was upset that he wasn’t going to know how it ended.  

“It IS quiet here. Why aren’t you watching TV now?”

“No lo vas a creer, Negra. ¡Pero no se dejó venir to madre despues que se fue Dora, y le estiró a los cables hasta que se pagó el pinche television!”

I couldn’t help but laugh at how he genuinely didn’t understand what would make Mom do such a thing.

“Chinga’o, Negra, no voy a saber en que se quedó to vista.”

“Well Dad, sometimes it’s just not about you.”