The email from the probate folks looked like just another email on the surface. It was anything but. It was a punch in the gut, informing us that yet another piece of my mom is gone.
My mom’s car has been sold. With that, a piece of her identity is gone.
It’s as if more proof that she existed is slowly being erased because the pain we’ve endured since she died isn’t enough. It’s fucking torture.
Everyone who knew my mom knew her car: the red Altima. She loved that car. It’s the car she used to deliver Avon orders. It’s the car she showed up in to countless family get togethers (at least an hour early and always the first one there). She listened to her favorite radio station in that car, Mega 104.3, and danced in her seat while doing her signature shoulder shimmy.
It’s just a car. Why does it hurt so much? Memories. That’s why.
Memories of her picking me up from the airport. Driving us to breakfast at one of our favorite spots. ¿Que quieres, mija? Menudo. Chilequilles. Machaca.
But my best memories of my mom in that car? Our convos. Forever our convos.
Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.
I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.