In a small rural town. Near the city of mines, on a narrow winding road, past the valley of snakes. In a large home. With many rooms and many beds. My grandmother, Maria Hernandez, lives alone. She is 96 now. Many sunrises have her eyes laid on. Many stories do her age marks show.

Every morning, she sits in her hallway, where she sows. No glasses needed, just light. She chooses this spot since it is well lit because of its two doors on opposite sides. She sows by hand, stitch by stitch. And without knowing a part of her lays in every loop, in intricate knots, and in the string wrapped around her finger.

She is an amazing woman. Who bared 15 children. And who along with my grandfather brought up 12 children. So, the household, as she raised her children, was always full of people. It was crowded and loud. Someone was always singing, and the radio was always on. No one was ever by themselves, if anything there was always someone stepping on top of one another. Because that is what family meant. No space. No silence. No being lonely in the dark.

As time passed her kids started to get older. And one by one left her side, for marriage, for schooling, for work. They took on the world, and slowly but surely left behind one more empty bed. That was an inevitability in life that just occurs over time. And gradually there was more room in the house and less noise to be heard. Till one day all the beds became empty but hers.

In the last couple of years, with an empty nest and dwindling years I think my grandmother has had more time to ponder about her life. She is lonely without saying she is lonely. She says things like “no one comes to visit”. “or I must have been such a terrible mother that no one wants to be with me now”. And every time it makes me twinge a little. So much I wish I was right next to her each time, sitting in her lap, hugging her so tight making her squirm, till she realized what she was saying was moronic. Why?

Because I wish she could see the grand scheme of things, of what one very strong willed woman helped build. How as intricate as her embroidery she is stitched into every piece and being of each and one of us that call her family. We are a strong fort, all her descendents. All my uncles grew up to be great men. Responsible, hard working, loving head of their own households. All my aunts became nurturing, sweet, accomplished women. And by default, all her grandchildren got to grow up in loving and nurturing households. And it did not happen over thin air. And it wasn’t a predestination of sorts. The values they instilled in their lives, the morals that carried them through, the ideals that they then passed on to us, it is all thanks to her. And I really wish she could see that. What she has done for each and one of her children, every generation thereafter has benefitted in some way or another.

The house with many beds is now fairly empty. The once rambunctious household that held a dozen children is quiet. The doors have stopped slamming open and there are less chairs in the kitchen table.

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.