The Beauty of Aging in a Mexican Home
Sonia Castillo
Carefully, she massaged Amá’s delicate skin with her fingers with a delicate undulation. Amá’s skin resembled a pink baby salamander, transparent enough to see the blue blood in each vein. Vaseline lubricated each circular stroke, making it easy to palm each muscle. Mom took great care not to dig too deep and create a bruise. The slightest slip of a finger could cause microscopic fissures beneath the skin’s surface that could last for weeks. With each stroke down Amá’s feeble body and drawn legs, an overwhelming sense of service filled Mom’s heart. Every few moments, she would look up to check for a hint of discomfort. Amá often stared back blankly, yet the deep wrinkles around her eyes revealed an autobiographical roadmap of fortitude and benevolence. A haze had settled on her beautiful canela eyes and seeped into her mind. Amá was often in a trance, in and out of reality, and sometimes returned to infancy. We could feel her despair in those moments. Other nights, we could hear it. Twice a week, mom would pull Amá’s legs down, away from her chest, to fight the atrophy. Amá howled with pain as Mom stretched each ligament, forcing them to move like a resistant rubber band. I would hide in my room and cry. I sometimes still hear her in my sleep.
. . .
Midland is nestled in the armpit of Texas, the lower portion of the panhandle. Summers in the Permian Basin bring desert conditions with sweltering heat. Periodically, fierce, fiery winds spin their way through the basin, spreading thick layers of dust on every surface, filling every crevice.
Midland was an oil town in the early 80s, with busts and booms cycling throughout its history. My life mirrored these rotations, especially in 1995, my sophomore year in high school when my grandparents moved into our house on Maxwell Drive. We hauled Amá, Apá, and their meager belongings across Texas in our station wagon to our predominantly white neighborhood where they quickly settled in. They immediately began transforming our corner house into a conspicuous display of Mexican heritage. During siesta, Apá would sit with his ankles crossed on a weathered bench in the front lawn, watching hundreds of cars humming by on the main road. His creamy, white hair would glisten in the sun as he napped with our family cat, Guero.
Amá and Apá soon transformed the dark wood-paneled walls in the living room into vibrant shrines honoring La Virgén, along with photos of departed family members—withered memories from the beginning of the century. Votive candles with stained glass images of saints illuminated the evening benedictions. At dawn, when the morning dew began to evaporate, they had stout café con pan tostado. After dinner they watched dramatic latin novelas, sipping velvety atole con galletas while cursing at the television.
The presence of my grandparents became ubiquitous and irritating. A cumbersome plastic bench frequently impeded entry to my morning shower. The den smelled like Vicks, mothballs, and urine. Amá and Apá stealthily conspired against the life I once knew. At fourteen, multi-generational living was a difficult concept for me to grasp. So, I kept them a secret. There were no customary teenage sleepovers with scary movies, pillow fights and midnight dancing. I never brought friends inside. As I aged, however, I regretted my secret and longed to have their annoyances in my life once again.
On Sundays, beans bubbled in a mammoth olla while sad ballads, rancheras, wept from the stereo. The sounds of syncopated kneading, slapping dough from hand-to-hand, came from the kitchen every morning. Amá could grind simple ingredients like flour and corn into a dish that would transport you to her native, indigenous village outside la cuidad León, Guanajuato en México. Tamales and queso stuffed chile rellenos were always proudly served with a heaping side of heritage and pride. Eventually Amá’s cooking slowed, and finally stopped.
During the last years of their lives, my mom never left their side. Everyday was an homage and gesture of service: bath, food and toilet. I watched as each act of grace was met with applause from Amá. She was proud of my mother’s sacrifice. She was passing on her power as a Mexican matriarch. Mexican women carry a silent sense of pride, ingrained as budding chicas, our culture entwined in our braids at birth. Elders are revered as timeless artifacts of family history. Family takes care of family through their final hours. Anything otherwise is considered blasphemous. Witnessing a person’s life is the ultimate, most illustrious honor.
Towards the end, my grandmother did not recognize me, yet she could, with laser accuracy, recite the Lord’s Prayer. A promise from baptism, and a ritual practiced throughout her years. On September 20, 1996, Manuela Escoto cycled through this life.
In my dreams, “Family takes care of family” is eerily whispered in the voices of my grandparents. I sometimes hear the toilet flush at midnight and the squeak of my grandfather’s walker coming down the hallway. The images of their wilted faces and toothless smiles fill my mind. Now, my father needs me; he is sick. In willing service, I gently caress his gnarled feet, firmly massaging his swollen legs with Vaseline and turmeric oil. Life has cycled once again as I load my meager belongings to make the long journey across Texas where three generations share the water, food and televisión again.
There are times when we are the watchers—and others when we are the performers, los bailadores. This time I am the performer, and it brings me pride and glorious contentment to exist side-by-side with my parents. We’ve now entered a new rotation, much like in the Mayan calendar. There is beauty in age, between the moments of pain, emerging just past the curve of life.
Sonia Castillo
Sonia Castillo is a writer and native West Texan living in the panhandle corner of the state in Midland, TX. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction from the perspective of a mother and Hispanic woman enduring life in today's world. Sonia attended Texas Tech University and has an English degree with an emphasis in Creative Writing. She has taught literary analysis to high school students across Texas as a public school teacher. Her work has been featured in The Midland Reporter Telegram, Midland College Alumni, and My San Antonio. Additionally, her work has circulated online in Midland Moms Blog, Emma S. Barrientos Mexican American Cultural Center, Midland Chamber of Commerce, Midland Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, Mexican-American Pride and the American Latino Museum in Austin, TX. She hopes to inspire others to share their craft by listening to their authentic voice that resides within.