Crying Memories
The smell of lavender still makes my breath catch. It’s funny how certain scents, sounds, or even a glimpse of sunlight through a window can drag you back to a moment you thought you’d buried. For me, that moment is tied to a small, velvet-covered box and the sound of my grandmother’s voice saying, “Keep this close, mi vida. It’ll remind you of where you come from.”
I didn’t understand what she meant back then. The box held a silver locket, tarnished with age, with a faded photo of her as a young woman tucked inside. It felt like just another trinket from her endless collection of “meaningful clutter,” as Mom called it. But three months ago, when Grandma passed away, that locket became the anchor for a storm of memories I couldn’t outrun.
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The Phone Call That Changed Everything
It was a Tuesday afternoon. I remember because I’d just finished arguing with my best friend over something trivial—a missed text, a misinterpreted tone. My phone buzzed as I stomped up the stairs to my room, and Mom’s name flashed on the screen. Her voice was strained, the kind of calm that warns you to brace yourself. “Grandma’s in the hospital,” she said. “It’s… not good.”
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the locket on my desk. Grandma had given it to me six months earlier, during one of our weekly tea sessions. She’d always insisted on loose-leaf Earl Grey and honey cakes, even though her hands shook so badly by then that I’d have to steady the cup for her. That day, she’d pressed the box into my palm and said, “You’ll need this sooner than you think.”
I didn’t go to the hospital right away. Part of me was convinced she’d bounce back like she always did—the woman who survived wars, crossed oceans, and raised four kids on her own. But when I walked into her room the next morning, the sight of her frail frame swallowed by tubes and machines knocked the air out of me.
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The Words Left Unsaid
Grandma was asleep when I arrived, so I sat beside her bed, holding her hand and replaying every conversation we’d ever had. I remembered her teaching me to knit scarves that always ended up lopsided, her laughter as I butchered Spanish verbs during our language lessons, and the way she’d hum old boleros while cooking. But I also remembered the times I’d brushed her off—“Not today, Grandma, I’m busy”—or rolled my eyes when she launched into another “back in my day” story.
Guilt is a heavy thing. It settles in your chest like a stone, and no amount of “I’m sorry”s can dislodge it. When she woke up, her eyes cloudy with painkillers, she smiled at me and whispered, “You kept the locket.” I nodded, unable to speak. She squeezed my hand weakly. “Good. Now promise me you’ll tell your kids about the time I taught you to steal mangoes from Mr. Hernández’s tree.”
We laughed, but it turned into sobs—for both of us.
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The Funeral and the Floodgates
Her funeral was on a rainy Saturday. The church smelled like damp flowers and candle wax, and people I barely knew kept patting my shoulder, saying, “She’s at peace now.” But peace wasn’t what I felt. I was angry—at myself for not visiting more, at time for moving too fast, at the universe for taking someone who still had so many stories left.
After the service, I found myself alone in her empty house. The silence there was different, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. I wandered into her kitchen, where the scent of garlic and cumin still lingered, and opened the drawer where she kept her recipe cards. Beneath a stack of yellowed papers was a journal I’d never seen before.
Inside were pages of her handwriting—neat, looping script detailing family recipes, memories of her childhood in Cuba, and notes about me. “Today, Sofia asked why the sky is blue. I told her it’s because God ran out of watercolors. She believed me!” Another entry read, “Sofia’s first heartbreak. I gave her the locket and told her tears water the soul. Someday, she’ll understand.”
I read until the sunlight faded, tears smudging the ink.
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What the Crying Taught Me
Grief isn’t linear. Some days, I’m okay. Others, I’ll pass a thrift store and see one of her paisley scarves, or hear a piano cover of “Bésame Mucho,” and it’ll hit me all over again. But slowly, I’ve learned to stop running from the pain. Those memories—the ones that make me cry—are proof of how much I loved her.
Writing this autobiography forced me to confront emotions I’d tried to numb. At first, I hated the assignment. Why dig into something so raw? But as I wrote, I realized Grandma’s stories weren’t just about the past; they were bridges. Through her memories, I found parts of myself I’d never noticed—her resilience, her humor, her insistence on finding beauty in small things.
The locket hangs by my desk now. When sunlight hits it just right, the silver gleams, and for a second, it feels like she’s sitting beside me, laughing at one of my terrible knitting attempts. I’ve started writing in my own journal, too—recording conversations with Mom, silly moments with friends, even the arguments. Because someday, these crying memories will be someone else’s anchor.
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Final Thought: Tears Water the Soul
I used to think crying was a weakness. Grandma knew better. She used to say tears were like rain—messy, necessary, and full of life. Now I realize she wasn’t just talking about sadness. Crying cleanses. It reminds us what matters. And when we share those memories, even the painful ones, we keep people alive in the only way that truly lasts.
So, if you’re holding onto something—a trinket, a letter, a song—let it make you cry. Then let it make you smile. That’s where the story begins.
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