A few years ago, on 9/11, which is, ironically, my birthday, I woke up at college by a phone call from my family. My parents’ home, a single-wide trailer that they’d built on over time, was engulfed in flames. The next day, when I made my way back to them, there was little remaining but burnt pieces of tin that used to be a roof. My mom, who had been up all night, was crying, asking “Why, why?”

It was hard not to notice that the fire had even taken the yard and garden along with my mom’s rose bushes that she’d tended to for years. She loved them. She was always trying to make things beautiful, and see the bright side even when it seemed impractical to do so, and flowers were a part of that.

My mother’s favorite song was “Roses Will Bloom Again.” When I remember, I can hear her singing the lyrics “Roses will bloom again, just wait and see”. Often, she’d sing this as a reminder that things will get better, and it had meaning because despite the fact that we didn’t grow up with a lot of money, she always made sure that we had a stable home where we felt supported and loved.

Recently, I was digging through my archive of old video footage and I found something that surprised me. It was video of my mother, a year before she died, showing me the rose bush at the end of the driveway, the one my sister and I had bought to replace the bushes that had burned up.

The new bush that we’d planted was pink or red – I can’t remember exactly. But oddly enough, when the bush began to flower, the roses were yellow. The color of hope and light and happiness. My mom was amazed. That’s what she’s showing us in the video, her joy that they’d transformed themselves. It seemed to be a sign at the time that things would get better — a little miracle that happened to us after losing so much.

This year we’ve had a cold spring and the roses haven’t bloomed yet on the bush at the end of the driveway. We’ve developed a new tradition of clipping a rose and bringing it to lay atop my mother’s grave. There won’t yet be a fresh yellow bloom to bring for this Mother’s Day, but that’s ok. We’ll return in a month or so, because like the song says, “Roses will bloom again, just wait and see.” My mother was right about that, and so many other things. That’s how I like to remember her: tending to the garden, singing those lyrics, and smiling. I love you, Mom.

I didn’t have a great childhood, but when I think of happy moments, they were at my grandparents.
Uncle still lived there, and he had a ton of games. Video games. Board games. Novelty versions of Monopoly and Clue. We didn’t have to beg him, if he said he’d play with us, he would. We’d play for hours and he didn’t complain. He’d let us win.

Sometimes, on snow days, he’d call off so we wouldn’t drive our grandpa crazy begging him to play a game with us or to go outside and help build a snowman. Uncle would do that. Once, I’d been really sick when we got snow. All I wanted to do was build a snowman. He built me one where I could see it from the window.

When my brother and I got older, he’d take us to the movies with him and his friends on the weekend. We’d go out to eat afterwards. The last movie I saw with him before I got married was The Muppets. I’d grown up with him sharing his love for the old Muppet show with me. He had all the movies. If he wasn’t going to the movies that weekend, he’d take us to the comic shop. He’d let us hang out in his room, reading comics and telling us the history of different characters. He always had trivia about comics or movies.

After I got married, I’d still hang out with him or he’d come over with a movie he thought my husband or I would like. A little toy of our favorite characters, later our kids’ favorite characters. Just like he did with me, Uncle would watch movies and play games with his two grand-nieces. They considered him their best friend. He was always willing to play with them or listen to them go on and on about stuff that’s important to little kids. Just like with me, it didn’t matter how tired he was. If he could make someone’s day better by being there, he did just that.

She had the countenance and voice of an angel. She loved her jewelry, but she didn’t need it. She sparkled on her own. Her subtle makeup made her warm smile even warmer. And every Sunday, she quietly made her way to the piano, her sparkling voice twinkled through the room, both humbly and comfortably leading those she loved in music, a passion unsurpassed by all but her family and her faith. A beautiful light, gone from this world, waiting to guide us into the next.

Our father, Manuel Antonio Juarez, passed away a year ago today, on April 29, 2021. He is survived by his wife, two daughters, a son, and seven grandchildren. He is truly missed.

He tried so hard to keep himself safe during the pandemic. But, he still went grocery shopping on his routine days.

Manuel Juarez survived many physical traumas, but he couldn’t survive the negative effects of COVID.

“Our dad is a warrior. He is now our brightest star in the sky and he will continue to shine bright in our hearts.”

We Love you, always,
Your daughters,
Lorena and Nora

Poem: Still Here

I woke up this morning and you were gone again.
I went for a walk, and you were still gone.
I drove away, and you were more gone.

You keep getting gone again and again.
Gone and gone again and again and again.
Do you ever stop being gone?

I laughed with friends and right in the middle of our laughter
You showed up and you were gone again.

It never stops. It never goes away.
You just keep going and going here.
So much gone.

“Your brother’s heart stopped. He’s gone.”
But it keeps stopping . . . not every day,
Sometimes when I least expect it.
When I’m doing the laundry or making dinner
Or in the middle of a conversation
Your heart stops again and again.

Your goneness never fades away or disappears.
It is my constant companion —
Sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.