The rooms with empty beds

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The rooms with empty beds

But even then, Freud said it best, “Our beds are crowded.” Because even after one by one those beds became vacant. No matter the span of time, the past and the people in it always linger on. In echoes and phantoms, the walls come alive. The pitter patter of small children, the loud and crowded kitchen table, the arguments of teenagers, the endless conversations till morning rose, remain. It is all still there; it is all still hers.

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Omitting the truth and silk rebozo's

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Like any grandmother, most of my grandmother’s house was decorated by old priceless possessions. Mementos of the eras gone by, of the people and the moments in them. I had to be extra careful while in the house, never to touch anything for the fear of breaking it. But as any curious child the untouchable seemed tempting.

In my grandmothers armoire under a box of letters and papers in a plastic bag was one of my favorite untouchables. It was a rebozo (shawl). This was no ordinary shawl it was made purely of silk. A rebozo so light and thin died the perfect shade of black with a fringe knotted into elaborate designs. Intricate knots looped together that you knew took hundreds of hours to make.

On one occasion when my grandmother wasn’t looking I found myself wrapped in it, playing. And as life would have it the fringe got caught in the doorway. The more I moved away from the door way the more the thread unraveled. I remember feeling like the world was going to end in that very instant. I took it off as quickly as I could. Unstuck the thread and put it back in the back hoping my grandmother would never find out.

Soon after there was to be a family gathering. I was with my grandmother as she got ready when she asked me to get the rebozo out of the armoire. And in that moment I froze. So she repeated it again.

“Que saques el rebozo de seda que esta en la bolsa. ¿Que no oyes?” So there I was 5 scared out of my life slowly pulling out of the bag the silk rebozo I’d ruin days before. I wanted the earth to swallow me alive.

“Apúrate” she said. (Hurry up.) I gave it to her folded up. And walked out of the room as fast as I could.

Later that day as everyone sat immersed in conversation I found myself sitting next to my grandmother and as she pulled away at the fringe of her rebozo she whispered in my ear - “La omisión es deslealtad. Acuérdate de eso” And she continued talking like nothing with everyone around her about places and people I knew nothing about.

Omission is a form of disloyalty. I find myself thinking of that statement many years later. Does that statement ring true when you are omitting the truth to stop someone from feeling unnecessary pain? Or is it accurate no matter what the circumstance is? Is omission…… betrayal?