Four years

Even as a grown man, living far-away from Guate, my mom would call me every year on my birthday and sing to me.

I remember vividly how, as a toddler, Bertha would pick me up and dance a mambo with me huddled in her arms. How many meals did she cook for me over the years? How many books did she read to me before I could read on my own? I recall how carefully she chose the clothing she bought for me as a child and how well she knew my taste, respected it and tried her best to indulge me in it. I can still feel on my skin the hugs and kisses she gave on a daily basis, how she loved to hold onto my arm and squeeze it tight when we walked together.

Most of all, I miss her crystal clear gaze when I spoke. And how every word I said seemed to register somewhere deep inside her.

I respected, cherished, and loved her so deeply. Four years after her passing, I miss her more than ever.

I know I will never pick up the phone again in January and hear her song.

But I’m thankful for all the years that I did.