We sat on the couch together, chatting like giddy girls. You sang me the catholic Spanish hymns you wanted us to play at your funeral while I admired your voice like always. I watched your beautiful old hands and fingers follow the words of the songs from your tattered book. When you finished, I asked you, when I was a kid, what you thought I would be when I grew up. Your head tilted, and your shaking hand reached out slowly and brushed my hair behind my ear. “I had no idea, but I knew you would be something beautiful.” My eyes swelled, and I laid on your lap. You scratched my back the way I always liked with your tough 96-year-old wooden nails. When it was time for me to leave, I grabbed your frail shoulders and told you, “Now, I’ll be back in the fall, don’t die before then!” She burst into laughter. “I’m just kidding, Grandma, you can die whenever you like. I won’t hold it against you.” She laughed again and shook her head, “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m the one in charge of that.” We gave each other a long, tight hug, and I left hopeful to see her again in this life, and at the same time, I left hopeful to never see her again in this life.
Mi Abuela, Consuelo “Connie” Moralez in Victoria, TX
CONVERSATIONS WITH ASSHOLES 