I wrote to a stranger the day my husband died, on a green envelope. My husband had
been lying on our bed, smiling. We had known for a while, it had become the primary subject of
our morning conversations.
“We can go to the hospital, Samuel, we can buy ourselves more time.”
He continued cooking without turning around, making huevos con tomate, my favorite.
Mornings now required an extra incentive, something to lessen our, my, worry.
“And why would we want to do that, Salome?”
I remained quiet. He seemed calm as he walked across the kitchen, dragging his black
Selena slippers across the wooden floor.
“Do you know where we keep the adobo? I can't find it and I want to put some on your
eggs, you know, a little spice for my spice,” he said and winked.
I looked at him quietly. He had started to forget things. I lowered my gaze to my
fidgeting fingers.
“Oh come on, Platanito.” That’s what he called me, plantain.
***
“A fruit often overlooked, but never unappreciated,” he had said to me as we sat in our
garden surrounded by snowdrops on a late April afternoon fifty years before. We had planted
them the day we moved into our house. Standing in our kitchen I could still hear his voice, that
of a 25 year old man, “I knew you would love this bench, you can look at your flowers while I
look at mine, it’s perfect.” We swung back and forth on our porch swing. He had spent hours
unpacking and building the darned thing, it was beautiful, the perfect way to start our life
together.
***
“Salome, look at me, please,” he said firmly.
The stove’s knob pointed upward, to Off, he had stopped cooking.
“I don’t want you to go, we haven’t had enough time,” my words were mumbles behind
my curly brown hair.
He stared at me for a few seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter, swinging his
arms like a child.
“Oh, my! Oh my god, mi Platanito is so funny!”
“Stop laughing! Samuel!” I pounced on him, hitting him in the chest repeatedly, his white
and green striped pajama shirt ruffling under my fists as I hit him. I couldn’t understand what he
found so funny. Feeling defeated, I let my arms drop to my sides and stared at the shaking with
laughter twisting and turning figure that was my husband.
“I’m so sorry, Salome,” he said with a half breath- half chuckle, “I couldn’t help
myself.”
He laughed one more time, shaking his head violently. The quiet sound of the brown
wooden blinds moving made me look up. He had stopped laughing and was now looking at me
with loving eyes.
“I never thought fifty years could be a small number, that's how long we’ve been married,
Platanito,” he said. “I never imagined it could be so little time.” His honey eyes looked down at
the floor with that last statement.
I often teased him about them.
“I know you have really pretty eyes, but don’t go getting any ideas of using tus ojos de
miel on other ladies, they are mine and mine alone.”
“Then how come you are allowed out of the house with your colochos?” he’d reply,
amused. “Your curls.”
***
“It’s not enough!”
I couldn’t help but blame myself as I stood in the middle of our kitchen; it had been so
obvious. We had been visiting our son, Diego. Diego, who was 28, had finally been able to adopt
Amaria, our infant granddaughter, after many months of waiting. That’s when everything
clicked, when everything made sense, when everything started to fall apart.
“Platanito, have you seen my keys? I was sure I had brought them. Diego will be upset if
I lose another pair, especially now that his home holds our florecita.”
This was not the first time he had “lost” an essential, everyday item. It had happened a
few weeks back, “Hey, Salome, have you seen my brown shoes? I can’t find them and I really
want to go to the park,” he had said, frustrated. I cackled, he looked confused. My finger slowly
made its way to his hands, pointing diligently at the brown leather shoes with undone laces that
were on his hands.
“Ay, Amor! This is the third set of keys you’ve lost in the past three days! Let’s just try
to find them,” I said as we scurried around, looking for the puppy dog keychain Diego had sent
in the mail weeks before our visit. Later, we found the keys in the bottom of Samuel’s jacket
pocket. It had been a three-hour flight from New Hampshire to Georgia, so I blamed it on his
exhaustion.
“Amu,” my son called. “I think we should go check on Pop. He’s been acting a bit
weird.”
Diego and I were headed for dinner, “a parent to parent talk” he had called it. The
restaurant was only a couple of blocks away and Diego’s neighborhood was nice enough to merit
a walk in my pale green flats.
“Your Pop is perfectly capable of washing, boiling, and smashing some peas.”
He smiled at my comment in the way that made him look exactly like his father.
“Amu, you know that’s not what I meant,” he said with a faint smile on his face, “I am
just saying, peas can be vicious when they want to, and I have a princess to protect.”
Diego was careful, sometimes too careful, when it came to Amaria.
“Remember, Pop, you have to bathe her at three, but only for ten minutes, I don’t want
her to catch a cold. And don’t forget to give her su leche after you put on her blue floral pajamas,
not the purple ones, blue, azul. Mom and I should be back after dinner, call us if anything goes
wrong, no matter what, anything.”
“Ay mijo, stop pestering your father,” I said as Samuel looked at me with pleading eyes.
Diego had been blabbering for the last fifteen minutes, and we were going to be late for
our dinner reservation.
“Amu, it is crucial to stick to her routine, I’m a single parent, I want to stick to the book,”
his right index finger pointed to his left hand, simulating his all knowledgeable book.
“Diego Alejandro,” I said sternly, Diego straightened up his back at the sound of his full
name, “your father bathed you at six o’clock from time to time and you turned out OK. Try not
to worry so much, he won’t forget what to do.”
Dinner was interesting. Diego took me out to try a Possum Pie. I wasn’t excited to eat
possum, but it turned out to be a dessert. The small yellow dough with whipped cream and two
pecans at the top came on a white plate surrounded by chocolate flower drizzles. It was terribly
sweet, so sweet it made me crave some frijoles.
After a walk filled with discussions about the best baby bottles and pacifiers, we made
our way back. Diego opened the front door. Samuel was sleeping on the couch, the baby
nowhere in sight.
“Dad!” Diego shook his father with such force that Samuel awoke screaming.
“Samuel! Where is Amaria?”
Our shouts flooded the room as we interrogated Samuel about the whereabouts of our
little pea, and that’s when mayhem broke loose.
“I don’t know, I was just bathing her,” Samuel’s hands fluttered above his shoulders, his
face bleached of all color.
Diego’s face darkened at his father’s words, his back tensed up and his fists tightened,
“Where is my daughter?”
I left the room and headed upstairs to the bathroom. The white door was closed as if it
had never been opened, and there were no sounds coming from inside. I could hear Diego’s
muffled cries coming from downstairs. Trembling, I reached for the handle, opening the door to
the sky blue floral bathroom. Nothing but the quiet sound of the ceiling fan filled the room.
“Amaria? Nena? Come on baby, it’s Grandma.”
The dark blue shower curtain hid the tub. I reached for the tiny white sailboats that
patterned it with my right hand, my left hovering over my chest. Amaria was still, her chubby
little arms resting next to her head, laying on her back, peacefully asleep in the dry tub.
“How could you forget about her?” Diego was furious, cradling the sleeping three-month
child in his arms, holding her so tightly I feared he would hurt her.
Samuel did not say a word. He just sat there, blank-faced, hands in his lap.
“Samuel,” I whispered from behind my son, “Why didn’t you turn the water on? What
happened?”
Drops of sweat came running down Samuel’s trembling face. Diego had never seen his
father in such a state. I watched as Samuel stood up and reached out for Diego, asking for
forgiveness. Diego held on to Amaria, slowly moving behind me.
“Son, mijo, I don’t know what to say. I put the baby in the tub and was planning to bathe
her. I forgot. I don’t know what happened. I forgot. I just forgot.”
His icy cold fingers made contact with my shoulders, Oh Samuel.
Our doctor walked into the office, a few blue pens hanging from his lab coat, and from
the scrunched up corners of his mouth I could see that he dreaded the conversation we were
about to have.
“Hello Mrs. Ortiz, Mr. Ortiz,” he said while bowing his head, he looked so young to me.
“I will save you both some time and get straight to the point. I am very sorry but we are
unable to fully diagnose Mr. Ortiz due to the uncertainty of his condition, but the tests we have
conducted seem to––”
We went to our doctor in New Hampshire the week afterward. It was Alzheimer's, or they
thought it could be.
“What you really mean, is that you can’t diagnose him until he’s dead, isn’t that right?”
Samuel’s eyes opened wide at my insolent tone, but I looked at him firmly, letting him
know that he would not stop my mouth from running, we deserve answers.
The doctor remained seated, unmoved by my ill-mannered interruption.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Ortiz, I understand the pain your husband's situation has you in.”
I stared, glared, at the frame of his glasses, finding his sympathy abhorrent. You know
nothing.
I couldn’t hear any more, though our doctor kept explaining its different stages, the mild
confusion it might bring, and the many other symptoms that might develop. It’s not that, I
thought as he continued to place papers and pamphlets in front of us. Samuel CAN’T have THAT.
I felt Samuel’s wrinkled touch on my hand. It’s been awhile since we’ve been in a doctor’s
office, since he’s held my hand like this.
***
We had been married for three years, two years in our house, both of us turning 28 at the
end of March.
“Samuel!”
Nothing but the sound of a scribbling pencil replied to my call.
“Samuel?” I walked toward the dining room in search of him, my steps heavy, pushing
my koala slippers into the hardwood floor.
“Hey, you, your wife is calling,” I said, standing at the entrance of the dimly-lit dining
room, How can he work like this?
I remained standing, looking at my auburn haired beauty of a man. His papers were
spread all over the dining table for six, a single architect’s desk lamp illuminating its left side.
His right elbow rested on the wood, his face on his right palm, and a writing pencil in his left. He
was a lefty. The dim light shone mostly on the right side of his face, making his gold-rimmed
glasses more prominent, the reflection hiding my beloved’s eyes.
“Samuel,” I said, singing his name from the door.
He lifted his face, smiling as he saw me.
“Sorry, Platanito, I must not have heard you.”
He took off his glasses single handedly and placed them on the table, next to his papers.
He then opened his arms, asking me for a hug. I made my way towards him and carefully placed
his head inside my arms.
“Did you need something, Platanito?” he said while nuzzling his head into my stomach.
“Dinner is ready, Samuel, I called you a few times.”
“I am so sorry, I was hitting the books,” I could feel his faint smile against my belly.
“I would abstain from calling these books,” I said while closing one of them playfully,
“the books you read are only read by the few who can decipher the language of numbers.”
“Hey! I am a numbers man, I can’t help it if they speak to me. And who knows, maybe
our little soldado will grow up to be a mathematician like his Pop.”
He placed both of his hands around my stomach, gently pressing his lips against its great
circumference. We were pregnant, eight months pregnant.
“Hah! Our little ‘soldier’ will do no such thing, not if he doesn’t wish to.”
I was walking back to the kitchen with Samuel when I slipped, a sharp pain running up
my spine, heating up my face, chilling my fingertips. I had hit a counter corner, my belly had hit
a counter corner. I would have collapsed on the ground if it hadn’t been for Samuel.
I blacked out.
I woke up to the sight of Samuel over me. He held a cold compress with his right hand,
calling 911 with his left. Sweat was pouring down both of our faces. His hand trembled, I could
feel it through the damp cloth covering one of those blue icy things.
“Please, my wife is pregnant, we are pregnant, I need help!”
I looked around and noticed I was on the floor, something warm surrounded my
fingertips, blood?
“She hit a counter, she fell over,” a brief pause followed, “No, no, she’s awake now.
Okay, I will wait, yes, I will not move her.”
My eyes were heavy, blurring away Samuel’s concerned face
“Oh, no, no no no, come on. Salome! Hey, Platanito! Stay with me, okay? You will be
fine,” his voice was breaking, drops were falling on my face. Even now, I’m still not sure if they
were tears or sweat, “Just breathe.”
My eyes closed.
I awoke to the sound of Samuel’s happy crying, it is distinctive, the sound of a chicken
choking on something. I’ve always loved it.
“Thank you so much, sir, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Samuel? What happened?”
Samuel looked away from the doctor, who took Samuel’s disengagement as his cue to
leave.
“You collapsed, you ran into a counter, you were bleeding.”
“So much for those koala slippers, huh?”
His face stiffened, he was not amused.
I lifted my face to look around the room, no bump, huh? Wait, no bump!
“Samuel,’’ I stuttered, “Where is the baby? Is the baby okay?”
Samuel’s face softened, the corners of his mouth making their way into a smile. He
moved aside, and there he was.
“They had to do an emergency C-section, you were bleeding a lot.”
“Shush.”
“What? Salome, are you––”
“Samuel, shut up, look at him.”
Diego rested in a small hospital crib, wrapped by a sky blue blanket, a small green hat on
his little head. He was beautiful.
“Hah, I see him, Platanito. He has your eyes, dark brown.”
“Can I hold him?”
He looked sad for a second.
“The doctors say you should wait some time before lifting anything. At least for a few
days, I’m sorry, Salome.”
“But, I want to hold our son,” soft tears came down my face, I just want to hold him.
Samuel placed his hand on mine, gently caressing it with his thumb. He knew, he
understood.
***
“Have you considered a nursing home?”
My longing memories were interrupted by the doctor’s ignorant voice, Samuel’s hand
still resting on mine.
“Why? I can take care of him, he’s my husband.”
“Mrs. Ortiz, Salome, this will be a long deterioration, I don’t think you want to be there
when it all begins to go down. It is not safe for him. It is not safe for you.”
My face heated at his comment.
“I don’t care if it’s safe, he’s my husband and I will take care of him!”
Samuel’s hand was no longer on my hand, but on my shoulder.
“Salome, Amor, let’s talk about this at home.”
His eyes lay on me, firm, pleading.
“I saw a baby clothing store on the floor below us, how about you go and look for some
clothes for our little Amaria. Let’s get her a blue dress, Diego will love it.”
“Samuel––”
“Platanito,” he whispered as he held my hand and lifted it as to prompt me to stand up,
“I’ll meet you outside, okay?”
Plastic bag in hand, I waited for Samuel to come out of the doctor’s office.
How long do we have?
“Hey Platanito, how come you are all alone? I’m surprised suitors didn’t stop by to see a
belleza like you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean? Last time I checked, it was normal for husbands to compliment
their wives.”
“Samuel,” I felt my throat closing as it tried to stop my voice from breaking, “How long
do we have?”
“I think we should start looking at some nursing homes.”
The ride home was silent. I was driving. We had agreed it had to be this way, since he
seemed to have a diluted knowledge of traffic laws, or how to drive. My hands were clutching
the steering wheel, my head was on the road, my heart was in my throat, and Samuel’s hand
rested on my lap. I wanted to go back to the doctor. Maybe if we went back he would have a
course of treatment. Maybe there was a clinical trial we could join. Maybe they would have it
figured out by tomorrow, or the day after. Maybe Samuel would be waiting safely in a hospital
bed, where his heart would continue to beat.
“Samuel, maybe––”
“Salome, we could wait for weeks in the cold light of a hospital, waiting and nothing
else. I don’t want that.”
“Weeks?”
“Platanito, I want to be by your side for now.”
Samuel’s grip on my thigh tightened. It was dark. We were two stoplights from home,
waiting on red.
“Ah, here I am, waiting for green once more. Do you remember it?”
I did. That night years ago. Guatemala had never looked so beautiful. The light from the
blue paper lanterns shone above the heads of people dancing. We were both seventeen. I didn’t
go out much, but I had finally convinced my mother to let me go to my school’s formal, “Noche
Eterna”, Endless Night, and my green dress rested against the stool where I sat, watching
everyone dance.
“Hey Chula, can I take you out to the dance floor? I bet your body feels as good as it
looks.”
I turned my head in annoyance to find a tall, well-built, curly-haired guy. He was
standing, resting his weight on his right leg, looking like a perfect idiot. His honey eyes stared
me up and down. If vultures were able to flirt...
“My name isn’t ‘Chula’, it’s Salome,” I said, glaring, “And I’d rather watch other girls
reject you, so if you could get it moving I’d be perfectly entertained.”
His eyes narrowed at my comment. His hand began to move, reaching for mine.
“Hey, Marco,” Marco’s arm was stopped by another’s, “how about you stop being a
vulture and leave the lady alone?”
Marco’s jaw dropped along with mine. Another boy, just as tall and well-built, had
approached without us noticing.
“I was watching from my seat and I must say, I felt like I should’ve brought some raw
meat for you to stare at. Now that I think about it, I am glad I didn’t, you wouldn’t have any luck
with it, better save yourself from the embarrassment.”
His auburn curls were a mess, and his honey eyes shone as he smirked.
“My name is Samuel, what’s yours, Platanito?”
“I see you’re fond of stupid nicknames as well.”
“Seems like you don’t have a chance, Samuel, tough luck.” Marco turned around and
began walking towards the next girl.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, but I think Platanito fits you pretty well.”
“Really, how is that? Please, walk me through your thought process.”
He laughed intensely, causing himself to snort; his smirk growing broader at my
comment.
“Hah! Platanito, you’re funny! Well, it is pretty simple, it’s your dress.”
“My dress?” I looked down at the bell-shaped dress with spaghetti straps that reached
just below my naturally darkened knees.
“It’s green. When plantains are ripe, they’re a little sweet, a little sour. I haven’t known
you for a very long time, but from how you just rejected Marco, I would say you’re a little bit of
both.”
He had always been a smooth talker.
***
Samuel’s hand tightened once more. I’d been staring at his face the entire time.
“Do you remember?”
His hand jerked away from where it rested. We had made it home from the doctor’s
office, but still sat silently inside the car. He was hugging me.
“The day I stop calling you my Platanito I want you to pack me a suitcase and send me to
a nursing home. Do you hear me?”
“Why? I can take care of you, I can see you through this!”
He lifted my chin to meet his face, looking calm, so well put together.
“I don’t want you to, Salome,” his eyes seemed were firm, intense, “I want you to
remember me as I am now, I want you to have me for as long as I love you. Will you do this for
me?”
“I will, Samuel.”
He was truly okay with everything that was going on, but I had so many questions.
Questions I would not get answered, not until his death
That was six years ago.
***
“Hey, Salome. Hey! Salome!”
Samuel was nudging me, hard. I lifted my head, and saw that he had a concerned look on
his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.
“I put your huevos in front of you about an hour ago, but you haven’t touched them. Is it
because I couldn’t find the Adobo? Do they taste bad?”
“I should have known,” I whispered to myself.
“Known what? What’s wrong, Platanito?”
I felt my face tense up, I’d never felt anger like that before. I pounded the marble table.
“I should have known! I should have seen it!”
Samuel backed away at my sudden wail, hitting his back on the corner of the marble
island in the middle of the kitchen, dropping the eggs on the ground. There was silence.
“Salome––”
“I should have known,” I grabbed on to the counter as I descended to the floor, my legs
were shaking, my breath hastened. Tears fell down my face quietly. I wrapped myself around my
legs, huddling like a child.
Samuel got down on his knees, “Who is that?"
His arm was extended and his finger pointed at a picture resting on the kitchen counter. It
was our son.
“What?” I looked up at the sound of his voice.
“I - I can’t remember him.” his face was blank, trying to find something that was no
longer there.
“I can’t remember so many things, Salome,” he said without taking his eyes off the
picture, “I don’t know what is going on with me, it all seems like a bad dream that repeats itself
over and over again. Every time I forget something I have to hide it! Every time I forget to hide
it, I can see it in your face! I don't know what I should be able to know! I should have known!"
His screams hurt me deeply. My best friend, my Samuel. He was shaking, I could feel it
in my entire body as he rested his head in my lap. His auburn hairs with white on the tips grazed
against my legs.
***
“What are you doing?”
“Pop, it’s me,”
I sat there watching as Samuel drew away from Diego’s embrace, Diego was holding
Amaria’s hand, she was eleven.
“Salome, do something, I didn’t buy ourselves a brand new house for us to be bothered
by youngsters during our honeymoon.”
The dark velvet curtains blocked any sunlight from coming into the room, we were sitting
in the common room, the “visiting” room. Samuel was sitting on a wooden chair, holding on to
the left side with both of his hands, looking at me. I couldn’t say a word, this was Diego’s third
time visiting his father, it was Amaria’s first.
“Pop, it’s me, Diego, your son.”
“I am so sorry young man, but I think you are confused, I just got married, I don’t have
any children.”
At the end of that statement they both turned their eyes to me, Diego pleading, Samuel
enraged.
“Salome! Did you have another man’s child?” Samuel stood from his chair, grasping the
chair’s handle tightly.
Diego was stunned, I was petrified. He had never yelled at me like this before.
“Sorry, sir, maybe I am mistaken. Please do forgive me for the inconvenience,” Diego
said as he apologized, bowing down in front of his old man. Samuel sat down at his response.
“Apusito, why is grand Apu acting so weird?” Amaria’s voice parted the silence between
the three of us, too soon.
“Diego,” I said cordially as to fix Samuel’s attention away from Amaria, “How about we
take Amaria out for some ice-cream? There’s some just outside the common area.”
Amaria’s face lit up at my words, jumping up and down, tugging her father’s arm as
Diego had once tugged at Samuel’s.
“Samuel, Honey, I’ll be back in a few,” I said while gently kissing him on his wrinkled
cheek.
“Don’t worry, Platanito, we have all the time in the world.”
I walked away.
“Amu, why are you still visiting? I can see how much it hurts you to see Pop in such a
state,” Diego said while rubbing my back with the back of his arm. He was 39, he didn’t look
older than 30.
I sat there quietly, watching as Amaria swung up and down the nursing home playground,
I wonder if a lot of these people get visits from their grandkids, I’m sure glad Samuel does.
“Amu?”
“I am in pain, Diego, but he is in need.”
“I know that, Amu, but don’t you think the staff could take care of him? They are trained
for it, he would be fine.”
Diego was facing me, seated right next to me on the bench, his right arm still rubbing my
back while the other one moved as he talked. I remained unmoved, my face and body facing
away from him.
“I’m just saying, I know how hard it was for you to bring him here, and I am sure you
could be able to find some calm if you took a few weeks to yourself. Maybe you could stay with
us, Amaria will be out of school soon and I bet she would love to have her grand-Amu around.”
A chill went down my spine at my son’s words.
“You were not there.”
“What?”
“You, were, not there, Diego,” I said louder as I turned to face him. “You do not “know”
how hard it was,” I stood up from the bench and looked down at him.
“You were not there when your father forgot his key and decided to wander around the
neighborhood for hours, all alone, without telling me. You were not there when he forgot how to
brush his teeth, comb his hair, how to dress himself! You were not there when I came home to
find him sitting on his own urine, clueless! And you were definitely not there when we spent 10
hours packing, 10 hours of me having to move my arms like an idiot, showing him what do, so I
could fit him his shirts, so I could tell which clothes still fit! You-You were not there!”
I was out of breath, you know he means well, Diego had tears in his eyes. My legs were
shaking, my face was red, and my shirt had turned dark green from all the sweat it collected.
Amaria was still playing at a distance, trying to avoid the storm taking place merely ten feet
away from her. I could not hold it in any longer. I was tired.
***
I am late, I have to hurry, visiting hours will be over soon.
I had gotten caught up in the garden, someone had moved in the house next to us, and
their dog had run over my, our, garden.
I won’t forgive myself if I don’t make it, he will not forgive me if I don’t make it.
The nursing home was a few blocks away from the house, I was running, well speed-
walking, at the best of my ability from two blocks away. The cars in the street rushed passed me
as I started to cross the streets without waiting for the streetlight, I would not wait for red.
Finally, I made it.
I rushed to the front desk, my lungs moved up and down my chest, my mouth was open,
gasping for air.
“Hello, I am here to see Samuel, Mr. Ortiz.”
“Oh! You must be Salome, Mr. Ortiz has been asking for you.”
The lady at the desk was young, beautiful. I carefully observed her as she began to type
some things into the computer, her dark brown locks falling down her head, grazing her
shoulders.
“I will be back in a few seconds, I’m going to take Mrs. Ortiz to see her husband,” the
young lady said to the young man behind the desk, how many people do you need to staff a desk?
I followed her down the hallway, the white silky curtains moved gracefully as the wind
came inside the building, letting in the light. Slowly, we made our way into the room at the end
of the hallway, the butterfly garden.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” I said to her as she walked beside me.
“Oh! Well I doubt you would have, Mrs. Ortiz, I was transferred yesterday. Mr. Ortiz was
placed under my care, I was making a call for his laundry to be taken care of when you caught
me at the desk.”
“How is he, Samuel, I mean?” I asked her in a pleading voice.
“You can see for yourself in a few, Mrs. Ortiz, he was in a pretty good mood this
morning,” she said while holding her arm, pointing to the door. We had arrived.
I opened the door to find a beautifully lit glass room, my little wrinkled man inside. The
plants were beautiful, Snowdrops.
We went inside the room quietly so as to not disturb him, he was still, looking at the
flowers in front of him. As we came closer he became aware of our presence, the corners of his
mouth made their way into that gentle smile that always managed to lessen my burden.
“Salome, Platanito, you came back!”
His words were not directed at me.
“Oh! Platanito, who did you bring with you today? Is this one of your mom’s friends? I
know I told her she could help us move in, but don’t you think it is a little too soon to have her
friends drop by?”
He was looking at her.
“Samuel,” I said softly, “it’s me, it’s Salome.”
He took another glimpse at my pained face before turning back to her.
“Platanito, I don’t want to be rude, but I have a lot of work to do, books won’t read
themselves, you know?”
The young lady turned to face me, her eyes looking at me apologetically.
“Samuel, I am your wife,” I said pointing my arms towards me, “please, look at me, it’s
me, I’m right here.”
Samuel looked at me once more, his eyes seemed puzzled at the sight of my face. It
didn’t last long, he soon made his way back to the woman standing next to me.
“Platanito, do you like the flowers I ordered for you?” he said pointing at the planted
Snowdrops in the garden, “I know we planted some a few days ago, but I figured that since they
are your favorite it wouldn’t hurt to get some more.”
I looked up to the young woman standing next to me. She seemed uncomfortable, at loss
for words. She kept looking at me, waiting for some kind of response, waiting for me to lash out.
I simply nodded.
“Of course I like the flowers, Samuel, you got them for me, I can’t imagine anything
prettier,” she said gleefully.
I would never say that.
After that sentence we made our way out of the room, her walking behind me.
“Mrs. Ortiz, I meant to tell you but I figured once he saw you he would––”
“Take care of him.”
“What?”
“Please, take care of my husband.”
***
It was late in the afternoon, I was gardening. The sun’s orange rays were shining down on
me, on my snowdrops. It was April, two months since I had visited Samuel. I got weekly updates
from the nursing home, most of them came through my email, Diego had bought me a phone for
“emergencies”, and others came through the mail. It had been a blissful day. Amaria, now
twelve, and Diego had stayed with me most of the morning, we had gone strawberry picking, and
had spent the hours after that making homemade strawberry jam. They had gone about a half
hour ago, that’s when I began gardening. The dog from next door was still laying on my flowers
despite me talking to its owner, I didn’t mind so much now, at least it he enjoys them. They were
all better now, or much better than before at least. I stood up from the ground and walked
towards the porch, sitting down on the swing. I was tired. I should get on with it, I thought as I
reached for a few dark green envelopes inside my bag. I brought them up to my nose and
breathed in their snowdrop fragrance, they had been a present from Samuel. We had been at the
thrift store about 15 years ago, before this all started. He was looking for a new bowtie to match
his beloved plaid mustard jacket, I was just tagging along. After some time inside the shop, he
finally found one, “Platanito!” he yelled from the dressing room.
“Yes, Samuel?” I replied from the outside.
He opened the door and turned around smiling.
“What do you think of this one?” he said while holding the sides of the bowtie, adjusting
it.
“I think you look great, much better than the bright red one you tried on before, or the
dark orange one before that.”
“I think you are right, this dark green seems to match my jacket just in the right way. I
think I’m taking it.”
Finally, I had thought.
We made our way to the counter in order to buy it when he suddenly stopped.
“Whoa, Platanito, come look at this!”
I had already walked ahead of him but decided to make my way back to see what all the
commotion was about. He was holding a dark green velvet box, “the writer’s kit” the tag said.
Inside I could see an ink feather pen with snowdrop engravings, a bottle of green ink, and a few
dark green envelopes, it was charming.
“How about you take it?” said Samuel at the sight of my obvious wonder.
“I-I don’t think I should, we came here for you, and from looking at this box I doubt it
will be cheap,” I said while hovering my hands over the box.
“You are right, it isn’t cheap, a hundred-thirty dollars,” Samuel said as he turned the box
on its side.
Without hesitating, Samuel placed his new-found bowtie of the rack and walk toward the
counter, box in hand.
“What are you doing? You took forever to find that!”
“Well I think the satisfaction that bowtie could give me would never compare to the joy I
saw on your face at the sight of this box,” he said pointing.
“But, Samuel, we came here for you.”
“But, Platanito, I love you.”
He didn’t let me change his mind. We went to the register and bought the box. I had
never been so excited to get back to writing, I had done lots of reading after my retirement, but
writing was now reserved for the memories of my career.
“Make sure you give them a purpose,” Samuel said as we were entering our house, “Your
writing always had a purpose.”
The feather ink pen lay on my right hand, the light green paper on a cutting board I had
taken out since I wanted to write outside. I opened the dark glass container holding my green ink,
carefully submerging the pen’s tip, dragging it along the paper.
Dear Samuel,
been lying on our bed, smiling. We had known for a while, it had become the primary subject of
our morning conversations.
“We can go to the hospital, Samuel, we can buy ourselves more time.”
He continued cooking without turning around, making huevos con tomate, my favorite.
Mornings now required an extra incentive, something to lessen our, my, worry.
“And why would we want to do that, Salome?”
I remained quiet. He seemed calm as he walked across the kitchen, dragging his black
Selena slippers across the wooden floor.
“Do you know where we keep the adobo? I can't find it and I want to put some on your
eggs, you know, a little spice for my spice,” he said and winked.
I looked at him quietly. He had started to forget things. I lowered my gaze to my
fidgeting fingers.
“Oh come on, Platanito.” That’s what he called me, plantain.
***
“A fruit often overlooked, but never unappreciated,” he had said to me as we sat in our
garden surrounded by snowdrops on a late April afternoon fifty years before. We had planted
them the day we moved into our house. Standing in our kitchen I could still hear his voice, that
of a 25 year old man, “I knew you would love this bench, you can look at your flowers while I
look at mine, it’s perfect.” We swung back and forth on our porch swing. He had spent hours
unpacking and building the darned thing, it was beautiful, the perfect way to start our life
together.
***
“Salome, look at me, please,” he said firmly.
The stove’s knob pointed upward, to Off, he had stopped cooking.
“I don’t want you to go, we haven’t had enough time,” my words were mumbles behind
my curly brown hair.
He stared at me for a few seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter, swinging his
arms like a child.
“Oh, my! Oh my god, mi Platanito is so funny!”
“Stop laughing! Samuel!” I pounced on him, hitting him in the chest repeatedly, his white
and green striped pajama shirt ruffling under my fists as I hit him. I couldn’t understand what he
found so funny. Feeling defeated, I let my arms drop to my sides and stared at the shaking with
laughter twisting and turning figure that was my husband.
“I’m so sorry, Salome,” he said with a half breath- half chuckle, “I couldn’t help
myself.”
He laughed one more time, shaking his head violently. The quiet sound of the brown
wooden blinds moving made me look up. He had stopped laughing and was now looking at me
with loving eyes.
“I never thought fifty years could be a small number, that's how long we’ve been married,
Platanito,” he said. “I never imagined it could be so little time.” His honey eyes looked down at
the floor with that last statement.
I often teased him about them.
“I know you have really pretty eyes, but don’t go getting any ideas of using tus ojos de
miel on other ladies, they are mine and mine alone.”
“Then how come you are allowed out of the house with your colochos?” he’d reply,
amused. “Your curls.”
***
“It’s not enough!”
I couldn’t help but blame myself as I stood in the middle of our kitchen; it had been so
obvious. We had been visiting our son, Diego. Diego, who was 28, had finally been able to adopt
Amaria, our infant granddaughter, after many months of waiting. That’s when everything
clicked, when everything made sense, when everything started to fall apart.
“Platanito, have you seen my keys? I was sure I had brought them. Diego will be upset if
I lose another pair, especially now that his home holds our florecita.”
This was not the first time he had “lost” an essential, everyday item. It had happened a
few weeks back, “Hey, Salome, have you seen my brown shoes? I can’t find them and I really
want to go to the park,” he had said, frustrated. I cackled, he looked confused. My finger slowly
made its way to his hands, pointing diligently at the brown leather shoes with undone laces that
were on his hands.
“Ay, Amor! This is the third set of keys you’ve lost in the past three days! Let’s just try
to find them,” I said as we scurried around, looking for the puppy dog keychain Diego had sent
in the mail weeks before our visit. Later, we found the keys in the bottom of Samuel’s jacket
pocket. It had been a three-hour flight from New Hampshire to Georgia, so I blamed it on his
exhaustion.
“Amu,” my son called. “I think we should go check on Pop. He’s been acting a bit
weird.”
Diego and I were headed for dinner, “a parent to parent talk” he had called it. The
restaurant was only a couple of blocks away and Diego’s neighborhood was nice enough to merit
a walk in my pale green flats.
“Your Pop is perfectly capable of washing, boiling, and smashing some peas.”
He smiled at my comment in the way that made him look exactly like his father.
“Amu, you know that’s not what I meant,” he said with a faint smile on his face, “I am
just saying, peas can be vicious when they want to, and I have a princess to protect.”
Diego was careful, sometimes too careful, when it came to Amaria.
“Remember, Pop, you have to bathe her at three, but only for ten minutes, I don’t want
her to catch a cold. And don’t forget to give her su leche after you put on her blue floral pajamas,
not the purple ones, blue, azul. Mom and I should be back after dinner, call us if anything goes
wrong, no matter what, anything.”
“Ay mijo, stop pestering your father,” I said as Samuel looked at me with pleading eyes.
Diego had been blabbering for the last fifteen minutes, and we were going to be late for
our dinner reservation.
“Amu, it is crucial to stick to her routine, I’m a single parent, I want to stick to the book,”
his right index finger pointed to his left hand, simulating his all knowledgeable book.
“Diego Alejandro,” I said sternly, Diego straightened up his back at the sound of his full
name, “your father bathed you at six o’clock from time to time and you turned out OK. Try not
to worry so much, he won’t forget what to do.”
Dinner was interesting. Diego took me out to try a Possum Pie. I wasn’t excited to eat
possum, but it turned out to be a dessert. The small yellow dough with whipped cream and two
pecans at the top came on a white plate surrounded by chocolate flower drizzles. It was terribly
sweet, so sweet it made me crave some frijoles.
After a walk filled with discussions about the best baby bottles and pacifiers, we made
our way back. Diego opened the front door. Samuel was sleeping on the couch, the baby
nowhere in sight.
“Dad!” Diego shook his father with such force that Samuel awoke screaming.
“Samuel! Where is Amaria?”
Our shouts flooded the room as we interrogated Samuel about the whereabouts of our
little pea, and that’s when mayhem broke loose.
“I don’t know, I was just bathing her,” Samuel’s hands fluttered above his shoulders, his
face bleached of all color.
Diego’s face darkened at his father’s words, his back tensed up and his fists tightened,
“Where is my daughter?”
I left the room and headed upstairs to the bathroom. The white door was closed as if it
had never been opened, and there were no sounds coming from inside. I could hear Diego’s
muffled cries coming from downstairs. Trembling, I reached for the handle, opening the door to
the sky blue floral bathroom. Nothing but the quiet sound of the ceiling fan filled the room.
“Amaria? Nena? Come on baby, it’s Grandma.”
The dark blue shower curtain hid the tub. I reached for the tiny white sailboats that
patterned it with my right hand, my left hovering over my chest. Amaria was still, her chubby
little arms resting next to her head, laying on her back, peacefully asleep in the dry tub.
“How could you forget about her?” Diego was furious, cradling the sleeping three-month
child in his arms, holding her so tightly I feared he would hurt her.
Samuel did not say a word. He just sat there, blank-faced, hands in his lap.
“Samuel,” I whispered from behind my son, “Why didn’t you turn the water on? What
happened?”
Drops of sweat came running down Samuel’s trembling face. Diego had never seen his
father in such a state. I watched as Samuel stood up and reached out for Diego, asking for
forgiveness. Diego held on to Amaria, slowly moving behind me.
“Son, mijo, I don’t know what to say. I put the baby in the tub and was planning to bathe
her. I forgot. I don’t know what happened. I forgot. I just forgot.”
His icy cold fingers made contact with my shoulders, Oh Samuel.
Our doctor walked into the office, a few blue pens hanging from his lab coat, and from
the scrunched up corners of his mouth I could see that he dreaded the conversation we were
about to have.
“Hello Mrs. Ortiz, Mr. Ortiz,” he said while bowing his head, he looked so young to me.
“I will save you both some time and get straight to the point. I am very sorry but we are
unable to fully diagnose Mr. Ortiz due to the uncertainty of his condition, but the tests we have
conducted seem to––”
We went to our doctor in New Hampshire the week afterward. It was Alzheimer's, or they
thought it could be.
“What you really mean, is that you can’t diagnose him until he’s dead, isn’t that right?”
Samuel’s eyes opened wide at my insolent tone, but I looked at him firmly, letting him
know that he would not stop my mouth from running, we deserve answers.
The doctor remained seated, unmoved by my ill-mannered interruption.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Ortiz, I understand the pain your husband's situation has you in.”
I stared, glared, at the frame of his glasses, finding his sympathy abhorrent. You know
nothing.
I couldn’t hear any more, though our doctor kept explaining its different stages, the mild
confusion it might bring, and the many other symptoms that might develop. It’s not that, I
thought as he continued to place papers and pamphlets in front of us. Samuel CAN’T have THAT.
I felt Samuel’s wrinkled touch on my hand. It’s been awhile since we’ve been in a doctor’s
office, since he’s held my hand like this.
***
We had been married for three years, two years in our house, both of us turning 28 at the
end of March.
“Samuel!”
Nothing but the sound of a scribbling pencil replied to my call.
“Samuel?” I walked toward the dining room in search of him, my steps heavy, pushing
my koala slippers into the hardwood floor.
“Hey, you, your wife is calling,” I said, standing at the entrance of the dimly-lit dining
room, How can he work like this?
I remained standing, looking at my auburn haired beauty of a man. His papers were
spread all over the dining table for six, a single architect’s desk lamp illuminating its left side.
His right elbow rested on the wood, his face on his right palm, and a writing pencil in his left. He
was a lefty. The dim light shone mostly on the right side of his face, making his gold-rimmed
glasses more prominent, the reflection hiding my beloved’s eyes.
“Samuel,” I said, singing his name from the door.
He lifted his face, smiling as he saw me.
“Sorry, Platanito, I must not have heard you.”
He took off his glasses single handedly and placed them on the table, next to his papers.
He then opened his arms, asking me for a hug. I made my way towards him and carefully placed
his head inside my arms.
“Did you need something, Platanito?” he said while nuzzling his head into my stomach.
“Dinner is ready, Samuel, I called you a few times.”
“I am so sorry, I was hitting the books,” I could feel his faint smile against my belly.
“I would abstain from calling these books,” I said while closing one of them playfully,
“the books you read are only read by the few who can decipher the language of numbers.”
“Hey! I am a numbers man, I can’t help it if they speak to me. And who knows, maybe
our little soldado will grow up to be a mathematician like his Pop.”
He placed both of his hands around my stomach, gently pressing his lips against its great
circumference. We were pregnant, eight months pregnant.
“Hah! Our little ‘soldier’ will do no such thing, not if he doesn’t wish to.”
I was walking back to the kitchen with Samuel when I slipped, a sharp pain running up
my spine, heating up my face, chilling my fingertips. I had hit a counter corner, my belly had hit
a counter corner. I would have collapsed on the ground if it hadn’t been for Samuel.
I blacked out.
I woke up to the sight of Samuel over me. He held a cold compress with his right hand,
calling 911 with his left. Sweat was pouring down both of our faces. His hand trembled, I could
feel it through the damp cloth covering one of those blue icy things.
“Please, my wife is pregnant, we are pregnant, I need help!”
I looked around and noticed I was on the floor, something warm surrounded my
fingertips, blood?
“She hit a counter, she fell over,” a brief pause followed, “No, no, she’s awake now.
Okay, I will wait, yes, I will not move her.”
My eyes were heavy, blurring away Samuel’s concerned face
“Oh, no, no no no, come on. Salome! Hey, Platanito! Stay with me, okay? You will be
fine,” his voice was breaking, drops were falling on my face. Even now, I’m still not sure if they
were tears or sweat, “Just breathe.”
My eyes closed.
I awoke to the sound of Samuel’s happy crying, it is distinctive, the sound of a chicken
choking on something. I’ve always loved it.
“Thank you so much, sir, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Samuel? What happened?”
Samuel looked away from the doctor, who took Samuel’s disengagement as his cue to
leave.
“You collapsed, you ran into a counter, you were bleeding.”
“So much for those koala slippers, huh?”
His face stiffened, he was not amused.
I lifted my face to look around the room, no bump, huh? Wait, no bump!
“Samuel,’’ I stuttered, “Where is the baby? Is the baby okay?”
Samuel’s face softened, the corners of his mouth making their way into a smile. He
moved aside, and there he was.
“They had to do an emergency C-section, you were bleeding a lot.”
“Shush.”
“What? Salome, are you––”
“Samuel, shut up, look at him.”
Diego rested in a small hospital crib, wrapped by a sky blue blanket, a small green hat on
his little head. He was beautiful.
“Hah, I see him, Platanito. He has your eyes, dark brown.”
“Can I hold him?”
He looked sad for a second.
“The doctors say you should wait some time before lifting anything. At least for a few
days, I’m sorry, Salome.”
“But, I want to hold our son,” soft tears came down my face, I just want to hold him.
Samuel placed his hand on mine, gently caressing it with his thumb. He knew, he
understood.
***
“Have you considered a nursing home?”
My longing memories were interrupted by the doctor’s ignorant voice, Samuel’s hand
still resting on mine.
“Why? I can take care of him, he’s my husband.”
“Mrs. Ortiz, Salome, this will be a long deterioration, I don’t think you want to be there
when it all begins to go down. It is not safe for him. It is not safe for you.”
My face heated at his comment.
“I don’t care if it’s safe, he’s my husband and I will take care of him!”
Samuel’s hand was no longer on my hand, but on my shoulder.
“Salome, Amor, let’s talk about this at home.”
His eyes lay on me, firm, pleading.
“I saw a baby clothing store on the floor below us, how about you go and look for some
clothes for our little Amaria. Let’s get her a blue dress, Diego will love it.”
“Samuel––”
“Platanito,” he whispered as he held my hand and lifted it as to prompt me to stand up,
“I’ll meet you outside, okay?”
Plastic bag in hand, I waited for Samuel to come out of the doctor’s office.
How long do we have?
“Hey Platanito, how come you are all alone? I’m surprised suitors didn’t stop by to see a
belleza like you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean? Last time I checked, it was normal for husbands to compliment
their wives.”
“Samuel,” I felt my throat closing as it tried to stop my voice from breaking, “How long
do we have?”
“I think we should start looking at some nursing homes.”
The ride home was silent. I was driving. We had agreed it had to be this way, since he
seemed to have a diluted knowledge of traffic laws, or how to drive. My hands were clutching
the steering wheel, my head was on the road, my heart was in my throat, and Samuel’s hand
rested on my lap. I wanted to go back to the doctor. Maybe if we went back he would have a
course of treatment. Maybe there was a clinical trial we could join. Maybe they would have it
figured out by tomorrow, or the day after. Maybe Samuel would be waiting safely in a hospital
bed, where his heart would continue to beat.
“Samuel, maybe––”
“Salome, we could wait for weeks in the cold light of a hospital, waiting and nothing
else. I don’t want that.”
“Weeks?”
“Platanito, I want to be by your side for now.”
Samuel’s grip on my thigh tightened. It was dark. We were two stoplights from home,
waiting on red.
“Ah, here I am, waiting for green once more. Do you remember it?”
I did. That night years ago. Guatemala had never looked so beautiful. The light from the
blue paper lanterns shone above the heads of people dancing. We were both seventeen. I didn’t
go out much, but I had finally convinced my mother to let me go to my school’s formal, “Noche
Eterna”, Endless Night, and my green dress rested against the stool where I sat, watching
everyone dance.
“Hey Chula, can I take you out to the dance floor? I bet your body feels as good as it
looks.”
I turned my head in annoyance to find a tall, well-built, curly-haired guy. He was
standing, resting his weight on his right leg, looking like a perfect idiot. His honey eyes stared
me up and down. If vultures were able to flirt...
“My name isn’t ‘Chula’, it’s Salome,” I said, glaring, “And I’d rather watch other girls
reject you, so if you could get it moving I’d be perfectly entertained.”
His eyes narrowed at my comment. His hand began to move, reaching for mine.
“Hey, Marco,” Marco’s arm was stopped by another’s, “how about you stop being a
vulture and leave the lady alone?”
Marco’s jaw dropped along with mine. Another boy, just as tall and well-built, had
approached without us noticing.
“I was watching from my seat and I must say, I felt like I should’ve brought some raw
meat for you to stare at. Now that I think about it, I am glad I didn’t, you wouldn’t have any luck
with it, better save yourself from the embarrassment.”
His auburn curls were a mess, and his honey eyes shone as he smirked.
“My name is Samuel, what’s yours, Platanito?”
“I see you’re fond of stupid nicknames as well.”
“Seems like you don’t have a chance, Samuel, tough luck.” Marco turned around and
began walking towards the next girl.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, but I think Platanito fits you pretty well.”
“Really, how is that? Please, walk me through your thought process.”
He laughed intensely, causing himself to snort; his smirk growing broader at my
comment.
“Hah! Platanito, you’re funny! Well, it is pretty simple, it’s your dress.”
“My dress?” I looked down at the bell-shaped dress with spaghetti straps that reached
just below my naturally darkened knees.
“It’s green. When plantains are ripe, they’re a little sweet, a little sour. I haven’t known
you for a very long time, but from how you just rejected Marco, I would say you’re a little bit of
both.”
He had always been a smooth talker.
***
Samuel’s hand tightened once more. I’d been staring at his face the entire time.
“Do you remember?”
His hand jerked away from where it rested. We had made it home from the doctor’s
office, but still sat silently inside the car. He was hugging me.
“The day I stop calling you my Platanito I want you to pack me a suitcase and send me to
a nursing home. Do you hear me?”
“Why? I can take care of you, I can see you through this!”
He lifted my chin to meet his face, looking calm, so well put together.
“I don’t want you to, Salome,” his eyes seemed were firm, intense, “I want you to
remember me as I am now, I want you to have me for as long as I love you. Will you do this for
me?”
“I will, Samuel.”
He was truly okay with everything that was going on, but I had so many questions.
Questions I would not get answered, not until his death
That was six years ago.
***
“Hey, Salome. Hey! Salome!”
Samuel was nudging me, hard. I lifted my head, and saw that he had a concerned look on
his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.
“I put your huevos in front of you about an hour ago, but you haven’t touched them. Is it
because I couldn’t find the Adobo? Do they taste bad?”
“I should have known,” I whispered to myself.
“Known what? What’s wrong, Platanito?”
I felt my face tense up, I’d never felt anger like that before. I pounded the marble table.
“I should have known! I should have seen it!”
Samuel backed away at my sudden wail, hitting his back on the corner of the marble
island in the middle of the kitchen, dropping the eggs on the ground. There was silence.
“Salome––”
“I should have known,” I grabbed on to the counter as I descended to the floor, my legs
were shaking, my breath hastened. Tears fell down my face quietly. I wrapped myself around my
legs, huddling like a child.
Samuel got down on his knees, “Who is that?"
His arm was extended and his finger pointed at a picture resting on the kitchen counter. It
was our son.
“What?” I looked up at the sound of his voice.
“I - I can’t remember him.” his face was blank, trying to find something that was no
longer there.
“I can’t remember so many things, Salome,” he said without taking his eyes off the
picture, “I don’t know what is going on with me, it all seems like a bad dream that repeats itself
over and over again. Every time I forget something I have to hide it! Every time I forget to hide
it, I can see it in your face! I don't know what I should be able to know! I should have known!"
His screams hurt me deeply. My best friend, my Samuel. He was shaking, I could feel it
in my entire body as he rested his head in my lap. His auburn hairs with white on the tips grazed
against my legs.
***
“What are you doing?”
“Pop, it’s me,”
I sat there watching as Samuel drew away from Diego’s embrace, Diego was holding
Amaria’s hand, she was eleven.
“Salome, do something, I didn’t buy ourselves a brand new house for us to be bothered
by youngsters during our honeymoon.”
The dark velvet curtains blocked any sunlight from coming into the room, we were sitting
in the common room, the “visiting” room. Samuel was sitting on a wooden chair, holding on to
the left side with both of his hands, looking at me. I couldn’t say a word, this was Diego’s third
time visiting his father, it was Amaria’s first.
“Pop, it’s me, Diego, your son.”
“I am so sorry young man, but I think you are confused, I just got married, I don’t have
any children.”
At the end of that statement they both turned their eyes to me, Diego pleading, Samuel
enraged.
“Salome! Did you have another man’s child?” Samuel stood from his chair, grasping the
chair’s handle tightly.
Diego was stunned, I was petrified. He had never yelled at me like this before.
“Sorry, sir, maybe I am mistaken. Please do forgive me for the inconvenience,” Diego
said as he apologized, bowing down in front of his old man. Samuel sat down at his response.
“Apusito, why is grand Apu acting so weird?” Amaria’s voice parted the silence between
the three of us, too soon.
“Diego,” I said cordially as to fix Samuel’s attention away from Amaria, “How about we
take Amaria out for some ice-cream? There’s some just outside the common area.”
Amaria’s face lit up at my words, jumping up and down, tugging her father’s arm as
Diego had once tugged at Samuel’s.
“Samuel, Honey, I’ll be back in a few,” I said while gently kissing him on his wrinkled
cheek.
“Don’t worry, Platanito, we have all the time in the world.”
I walked away.
“Amu, why are you still visiting? I can see how much it hurts you to see Pop in such a
state,” Diego said while rubbing my back with the back of his arm. He was 39, he didn’t look
older than 30.
I sat there quietly, watching as Amaria swung up and down the nursing home playground,
I wonder if a lot of these people get visits from their grandkids, I’m sure glad Samuel does.
“Amu?”
“I am in pain, Diego, but he is in need.”
“I know that, Amu, but don’t you think the staff could take care of him? They are trained
for it, he would be fine.”
Diego was facing me, seated right next to me on the bench, his right arm still rubbing my
back while the other one moved as he talked. I remained unmoved, my face and body facing
away from him.
“I’m just saying, I know how hard it was for you to bring him here, and I am sure you
could be able to find some calm if you took a few weeks to yourself. Maybe you could stay with
us, Amaria will be out of school soon and I bet she would love to have her grand-Amu around.”
A chill went down my spine at my son’s words.
“You were not there.”
“What?”
“You, were, not there, Diego,” I said louder as I turned to face him. “You do not “know”
how hard it was,” I stood up from the bench and looked down at him.
“You were not there when your father forgot his key and decided to wander around the
neighborhood for hours, all alone, without telling me. You were not there when he forgot how to
brush his teeth, comb his hair, how to dress himself! You were not there when I came home to
find him sitting on his own urine, clueless! And you were definitely not there when we spent 10
hours packing, 10 hours of me having to move my arms like an idiot, showing him what do, so I
could fit him his shirts, so I could tell which clothes still fit! You-You were not there!”
I was out of breath, you know he means well, Diego had tears in his eyes. My legs were
shaking, my face was red, and my shirt had turned dark green from all the sweat it collected.
Amaria was still playing at a distance, trying to avoid the storm taking place merely ten feet
away from her. I could not hold it in any longer. I was tired.
***
I am late, I have to hurry, visiting hours will be over soon.
I had gotten caught up in the garden, someone had moved in the house next to us, and
their dog had run over my, our, garden.
I won’t forgive myself if I don’t make it, he will not forgive me if I don’t make it.
The nursing home was a few blocks away from the house, I was running, well speed-
walking, at the best of my ability from two blocks away. The cars in the street rushed passed me
as I started to cross the streets without waiting for the streetlight, I would not wait for red.
Finally, I made it.
I rushed to the front desk, my lungs moved up and down my chest, my mouth was open,
gasping for air.
“Hello, I am here to see Samuel, Mr. Ortiz.”
“Oh! You must be Salome, Mr. Ortiz has been asking for you.”
The lady at the desk was young, beautiful. I carefully observed her as she began to type
some things into the computer, her dark brown locks falling down her head, grazing her
shoulders.
“I will be back in a few seconds, I’m going to take Mrs. Ortiz to see her husband,” the
young lady said to the young man behind the desk, how many people do you need to staff a desk?
I followed her down the hallway, the white silky curtains moved gracefully as the wind
came inside the building, letting in the light. Slowly, we made our way into the room at the end
of the hallway, the butterfly garden.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” I said to her as she walked beside me.
“Oh! Well I doubt you would have, Mrs. Ortiz, I was transferred yesterday. Mr. Ortiz was
placed under my care, I was making a call for his laundry to be taken care of when you caught
me at the desk.”
“How is he, Samuel, I mean?” I asked her in a pleading voice.
“You can see for yourself in a few, Mrs. Ortiz, he was in a pretty good mood this
morning,” she said while holding her arm, pointing to the door. We had arrived.
I opened the door to find a beautifully lit glass room, my little wrinkled man inside. The
plants were beautiful, Snowdrops.
We went inside the room quietly so as to not disturb him, he was still, looking at the
flowers in front of him. As we came closer he became aware of our presence, the corners of his
mouth made their way into that gentle smile that always managed to lessen my burden.
“Salome, Platanito, you came back!”
His words were not directed at me.
“Oh! Platanito, who did you bring with you today? Is this one of your mom’s friends? I
know I told her she could help us move in, but don’t you think it is a little too soon to have her
friends drop by?”
He was looking at her.
“Samuel,” I said softly, “it’s me, it’s Salome.”
He took another glimpse at my pained face before turning back to her.
“Platanito, I don’t want to be rude, but I have a lot of work to do, books won’t read
themselves, you know?”
The young lady turned to face me, her eyes looking at me apologetically.
“Samuel, I am your wife,” I said pointing my arms towards me, “please, look at me, it’s
me, I’m right here.”
Samuel looked at me once more, his eyes seemed puzzled at the sight of my face. It
didn’t last long, he soon made his way back to the woman standing next to me.
“Platanito, do you like the flowers I ordered for you?” he said pointing at the planted
Snowdrops in the garden, “I know we planted some a few days ago, but I figured that since they
are your favorite it wouldn’t hurt to get some more.”
I looked up to the young woman standing next to me. She seemed uncomfortable, at loss
for words. She kept looking at me, waiting for some kind of response, waiting for me to lash out.
I simply nodded.
“Of course I like the flowers, Samuel, you got them for me, I can’t imagine anything
prettier,” she said gleefully.
I would never say that.
After that sentence we made our way out of the room, her walking behind me.
“Mrs. Ortiz, I meant to tell you but I figured once he saw you he would––”
“Take care of him.”
“What?”
“Please, take care of my husband.”
***
It was late in the afternoon, I was gardening. The sun’s orange rays were shining down on
me, on my snowdrops. It was April, two months since I had visited Samuel. I got weekly updates
from the nursing home, most of them came through my email, Diego had bought me a phone for
“emergencies”, and others came through the mail. It had been a blissful day. Amaria, now
twelve, and Diego had stayed with me most of the morning, we had gone strawberry picking, and
had spent the hours after that making homemade strawberry jam. They had gone about a half
hour ago, that’s when I began gardening. The dog from next door was still laying on my flowers
despite me talking to its owner, I didn’t mind so much now, at least it he enjoys them. They were
all better now, or much better than before at least. I stood up from the ground and walked
towards the porch, sitting down on the swing. I was tired. I should get on with it, I thought as I
reached for a few dark green envelopes inside my bag. I brought them up to my nose and
breathed in their snowdrop fragrance, they had been a present from Samuel. We had been at the
thrift store about 15 years ago, before this all started. He was looking for a new bowtie to match
his beloved plaid mustard jacket, I was just tagging along. After some time inside the shop, he
finally found one, “Platanito!” he yelled from the dressing room.
“Yes, Samuel?” I replied from the outside.
He opened the door and turned around smiling.
“What do you think of this one?” he said while holding the sides of the bowtie, adjusting
it.
“I think you look great, much better than the bright red one you tried on before, or the
dark orange one before that.”
“I think you are right, this dark green seems to match my jacket just in the right way. I
think I’m taking it.”
Finally, I had thought.
We made our way to the counter in order to buy it when he suddenly stopped.
“Whoa, Platanito, come look at this!”
I had already walked ahead of him but decided to make my way back to see what all the
commotion was about. He was holding a dark green velvet box, “the writer’s kit” the tag said.
Inside I could see an ink feather pen with snowdrop engravings, a bottle of green ink, and a few
dark green envelopes, it was charming.
“How about you take it?” said Samuel at the sight of my obvious wonder.
“I-I don’t think I should, we came here for you, and from looking at this box I doubt it
will be cheap,” I said while hovering my hands over the box.
“You are right, it isn’t cheap, a hundred-thirty dollars,” Samuel said as he turned the box
on its side.
Without hesitating, Samuel placed his new-found bowtie of the rack and walk toward the
counter, box in hand.
“What are you doing? You took forever to find that!”
“Well I think the satisfaction that bowtie could give me would never compare to the joy I
saw on your face at the sight of this box,” he said pointing.
“But, Samuel, we came here for you.”
“But, Platanito, I love you.”
He didn’t let me change his mind. We went to the register and bought the box. I had
never been so excited to get back to writing, I had done lots of reading after my retirement, but
writing was now reserved for the memories of my career.
“Make sure you give them a purpose,” Samuel said as we were entering our house, “Your
writing always had a purpose.”
The feather ink pen lay on my right hand, the light green paper on a cutting board I had
taken out since I wanted to write outside. I opened the dark glass container holding my green ink,
carefully submerging the pen’s tip, dragging it along the paper.
Dear Samuel,
