Doña Lydia's farewell

The wound is still fresh. I can feel it burning a vivid red, yet it is gradually healing, thanks to the love I will always remember from Doña Lydia Márquez.

Lydia was born in Piedras Negras, Veracruz. She married Sergio Cruz—who was twenty-three—when she was seventeen. They had four children; the third was my father. My father and mother—then twenty-one and nineteen, respectively—had me, a turn of events that abruptly changed their plans for university studies.

Mi abuelita Lydia took care of me while my parents worked. Meanwhile, my grandfather Sergio found a job in Cancún, Mexico. My grandmother, my aunt and I accompanied him to that Caribbean city. Later, we lived in a small town near Valladolid, Campeche.

I spent my early years with my grandmother, nourished by bean tostadas, tortillas with crema and salt and fried plantains.

When we returned to the capital, my grandmother would often bring me a breaded steak with fresh-made french fries during recess. My elementary school classmates looked on with envy; while they had to settle for a sandwich and a Frutsi juice box, I sipped on fresh pineapple or guava water.

Back in Campeche, whenever it was my birthday, the whole town was invited. Mi abuelita Lydia spoiled me with love and piñatas. I still feel the love she gave me deep in my heart. Parties were what she enjoyed most—sharing moments with family and friends. I can still hear her laughter as she prepared tortillas and warmed them on the comal, cooking up picadas, chiles en nogada and buñuelos.

She always prepared far too much food for parties, yet there were never any leftovers to take home. If guests wanted more, they were welcome to come to her house the next day for hot, freshly made tortillas.

Eventually, I learned to make tortillas and cook beans, but when I told her I was getting married, she looked at me in disbelief. I had always told her I wasn't going to get married because I didn't want to cook every day. She even warned my future husband that I didn't know how to cook. Fortunately, canned beans are delicious enough to enjoy these days, though I know Doña Lydia is watching me from the beyond, waiting for me to finally buy a pressure cooker.

Lydia passed away on May 31st, following a few years of dementia that worsened after her husband, Sergio, died in 2020. From that point on, my grandmother no longer recognized me, yet she complimented my dress at her birthday party last year. I am deeply grateful to have shared that final moment with her, celebrating her 90th birthday with mariachis. Even though she could no longer walk, she swayed from side to side in her chair, dancing to the rhythm of the trumpets. I have no doubt that the party continues now up in heaven, where she is dancing with her beloved and my uncle.