Sunrise to Sunset

Sunrise to Sunset Part 1

I must have been five or six when it happened. I remember my mom calling me with her sweet sounding honey-dew voice, "Diana."

I remember, and yet it seems like a distant dream. The room was dark and there were people sitting down; their soft chatter barely audible, some clutching rosary beads and whispering prayers, while others remained silent—perhaps, remembering days passed like embers of smoke dissipated with time. I was among those that were standing, yet being one of the youngest, I was alone in my uncertainty. There was row after row of foldable metal grey chairs lining the room. Everything seemed silent and still.

And then I saw her among them—my mother. She was holding a tissue in her hand. She must have been because she was raising her delicate hand toward her flustered face. And at that moment, I think I heard her crying, or maybe I just thought I did. I really don't remember. What I do remember is turning around, my back facing the grown-ups; staring in wonderment at what was in front of me; my innocent little mind not fully grasping the severity of the situation. I had, of course, never really experienced being at a vigil before.

But there he was—or what was left of him; perfectly still and handsomely dressed in a pressed black suit with a white collared shirt underneath complete with a silver-colored tie, as if he were attending a formal affair filled with champagne and dancing, save for the hands resting at his chest.

I remember looking up at his face and seeing the strange texture of his skin. It looked like a mask; cakey and off somehow. He almost appeared to be sleeping, but I knew that he wasn't. I glanced back at my mother, who was wiping her eyes as she silently wept at my uncle—her brother's wake. As I stood near his casket, my curiosity to understand what was going on stronger than any expected fear one would expect a child to perceive, peaked in me questions such as: Why does he look like that? Why is mommy crying? Is there anyone there? But of course, no one even thought to explain it to me; and I was too unsure to even ask. Or at least I don't recall asking anyone. But that was a long time ago. Now, I am alone.

I recall very little of my uncle John, with the exception that he taught me how to play cards. I must have been about four years old. We would sit at the kitchen table playing war—a simple enough game—while we waited for my mom to come home from work. I remember the beige ceramic bowl of sliced red apples next to the deck of cards, and the smell of garlic on his shirt (he worked at a pizza parlor). I don't remember if I ever managed to beat him, but I remember laughing, and pretending to be upset when he captured my aces. He always saw through my façade.

As a single parent, my mom was sometimes too busy to spend any time with me. We lived in my Grandmother Irma's house. My mother grew up there, and after separating from my dad when I was only three months old, she returned. All I have of him are pictures. My aunts always said that I was like him. I never knew what they meant by that.

My uncle John was the youngest of my mother's siblings, and she had three older half sisters: Carol, Sylvia, and Beatrice. She never really got along with them. I think it was because they didn't really grow up together. My aunts were raised by my grandfather and his new wife. He claimed that my grandmother was "not suitable to raise children." It is common enough in Central America to be raised by relatives, if one is not capable. And my grandmother, well, she was not ready to grow up yet, and deal with the responsibility of parenthood. But this isn't San Jose, Costa Rica this is Brooklyn, New York. And who could have predicted that a few years later, all of us would be living under the same roof.

Four years later, I was sitting in my room holding a picture in my hand of my mother and I when I was three. A warm feeling in my chest began to envelop me. I almost felt a tear stir in my right eye. I think of how sad and alone I felt, even though I had an older sister, Clarissa—she was two years older than me. I didn't know that at the time until one day, my mother told me.