365 # 42: Blanca

At least that's the name I always heard you called whenever people talked about you. There's a picture of you and I that must have been taken when I was around two years old. I'm sitting in a dry birdbath, the one in the yard at my grandparent's old house in the Rio Grande Valley, and you're standing behind me to make sure I don't fall. We're both smiling. And if I think really hard, I swear I can call up real memories of you. Just flashes though. I don't really know anything at all about you other than that you were from Mexico, you didn't speak much English, and you were the caretaker that my mom hired to watch me while she ran her restaurant. From what I've been told, I frequently carried messages between the two of you. You'd tell me something in Spanish, then I'd go tell my mom in English, then she would send me back to you with another message, which I would render to you in Spanish. How weird to think that I was once fluent in a language that now eludes me, save for what I learned in Spanish classes and from just living in Texas. If my oldest son is any indication at all of what kind of kid I was, all I can say is sorry, and thanks. I hope my family treated you well.