A Tiny Cabinet Memorial

 

Center text reads: Hi, I'm Kristina and these are my parents, Abigail & Reynaldo, along with a few other family members. You're probably wondering why these pictures are here. It's simple, really. Both of my parents have passed away. I'm only 30 yrs. old. I put them here because it's been too long since their smiles, & really their presence, have been shared with others. Now you've seen their faces and you know their names so even if you eventually forget, at least for today, they've existed HERE one more time. Thank you for letting me share them with you. [drawn heart] Kristina P.S. Oct. is my mom's birthday so feel free to send her birthday wishes!

For the past 3 years since I started living in Arizona (I'm originally from Southern California), I have struggled with how to honor my mother from a whole state away. Back in Cali, every holiday, birthday and anniversary, I would decorate her grave. I would go the the Dollar Tree or the 99 Cent Store and purchase windmills, butterfly stakes, streamers, and those small balloons on a stick that usually are meant to go inside flower arrangements. Around the holidays I would grab tiny glittering pumpkins and scarecrows, Easter bunny garden stakes, mini Christmas tree lights, and even Mother's Day & birthday balloons. I would take my time picking each decoration with care and laying out a plan on how I wanted to organize it once I got to the cemetery. I could easily spend an hour in the store figuring everything out until the last detail, but the actual decorating would go a lot more quickly since I had already mapped it out in my head. Sometimes my brother and his kids would go with me to help decorate, but often it was just me and once I would finish I'd send the pictures to my family. The picture below is just one example of how I'd decorate around her headstone. It's not featured in the physical display, but it was something that I felt was important to share here on the blog. What you don't see in this picture, however, is how the decorations continue further down along her entire plot. As you can guess, I'd go all out. 

What this did for me was that it allowed me a time and a place that I could dedicate solely to my mother. I couldn't see her anymore, I couldn't talk to her, and I wasn't able to hold her or touch her. Decorating her grave made me feel like I could spend time with her. Often while decorating, I'd have conversations with her. I'd tell her about my day or what I was learning in school at the moment. If there were any special events coming up like a graduation or a birthday party, I'd tell her about that too. And there were many times where I just told her how much I missed her, where I sat there trimming the grass and wiping down the headstone with a granite cleaner and tears streaming down my face. It was a way to honor her as much as it was a way to honor myself. 

But that ritual stopped once I moved to Arizona and I found myself lost with how to keep it going. I put up a picture with flowers and candles on our entryway table and that made me feel a little better. I'd light the candle for her every time Mother's Day and the anniversary of her death came around. I'd even put up Halloween balloons because her birthday falls only a week before the holiday. But somehow it never felt enough. I was missing the movement of it. My body was missing the act of it. But more than that, there was the absence of witness. There was a whole process involved with decorating my mother's grave. Decorating the entryway table, however, consisted of lighting a candle and putting up balloons. And, perhaps more importantly, nobody saw it. No one except those that lived with me and whoever might come over to visit. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't the same. 

The photo collage at the top is actually a placemat that I made in first grade. My mother helped me pick out the photos and then cut them out to fit. The top left photo that's kind of cut into the shape of a tree is my absolute favorite picture of my Mom and I. There's the white flocked Christmas tree in the background, I'm in my favorite red nightgown that was only used around the holidays, and my mother and I both have the biggest smiles on our faces. We're both trying to put bunny ears behind the other's heads and it just speaks to how much fun we used to have together. She brought light to every holiday and to this day whenever I think of Christmas magic, I think of my Mom.

I hadn't felt that familiar movement of ritual since the last time I tended to her grave. That is, until now. This Tiny Cabinet Memorial that I've created really allowed me the opportunity to experience that again. I dug through packed boxes (my boyfriend and I have recently moved) in the search of some of my favorite photos of my Mom, I mapped out in my head what I wanted the layout to be, and I sat down to write the note to those who would pass by and take the time to read it. I knew I wouldn't find too many pictures, because so many are still packed away, but I did know that people were going to see it. And that is what made this time feel like enough. 

   

The top photo is of my mother and great-uncle. He was visiting from Puerto Rico and we had just had breakfast at a family restaurant that my family has been going to since before I was even born. This photo means a lot to me because growing up, my mother would take me to Puerto Rico every summer to visit family. I can't not think of Puerto Rico without also thinking of my mother and all of the memories we made there. The photo underneath that was taken at a photo booth inside of a mall. I have vivid memories of begging my mom to take a picture until she finally said yes. I keep this photo tucked between the glass and its frame on my vanity. 

There is something special about decorating a grave. Yes, there's the physical act of it, the ritual of picking decorations out, and planning the layout. But there's also the fact that everyone who walks into the cemetery, and even those that drive by and look through the gate, will see the windmills and streamers blowing in the wind. Even the maintenance workers bear witness to your loved one's existence. I remember the first time visiting the cemetery for Mother's Day. As we were driving up to it, I could see pink streamers and balloons, teddy bears and crosses, and SO MANY FLOWERS. I remember thinking that although I don't know each person's name, although I didn't know them or know anything about them, I do know that they were loved. I know that there is someone here on this earth who misses them and I know that I am honoring their lives simply by seeing the decorations and knowing that they were here. And therein lies the magic of it all. Therein lies the enough-ness. 

I lost my father just this past summer. The pain is still fresh; everything still feels acute and like an open wound. I was really worried about how I'd be able to honor him at home. I won't be able to take care of his grave at all. At least for my mother I got the opportunity to do that for several years before I finally moved. But for my father, I won't even be able to see it unless we visit California, and even then there's no guarantee that we'll be there during a holiday. In a way, this Tiny Cabinet Memorial allowed me to have a mini experience of tending to my father's grave. 

The top photo is my father and I at that family restaurant I referenced earlier. I love this picture because he's got his arms wrapped around me and I'm resting my head on his arms while holding his hands. I look at this and remember the countless times we sat in that restaurant and shared a meal: after volleyball practice, weekend breakfasts, and just because. Also, you can see that my Dad's wearing a UCLA ball cap. I giggle when I look at it because it was a rare occasion when he wasn't wearing something UCLA, Dodgers, or LA Rams related. The bottom photo is at the same photo booth inside the mall where I took the picture with my mom. The only difference is that we've added a churro to the mix. My father loved churros. Well, really any type of baked goods. I love this picture because it looks like we're fighting over who takes the next bite and you can tell by our facial expressions that we were laughing and having a great time. That's one of the things I'm going to miss most about him. All the laughs he gave and had with everyone around him. These photos also live tucked between the glass and its frame on my vanity. 

I know he's not buried in Arizona (he's with my mother back in Cali), but he did pass away here. He lived with me for three years and I've honored the life and memories he's left behind by creating this memorial. I meant what I said in that note in the first picture: "Now you've seen their faces and you know their names so even if you eventually forget, at least for today, they've existed HERE one more time". And now that I've told you more about my experience and about my parents, they've existed in more ways inside your mind than just through photos. They exist in stories. They exist in context. And all of this will remain out in the world available to anyone who wants to read it, at least, for as long as this blog exists. And maybe that's what I've learned here. That this writing thing that I do, that I've always done, is a memorial in itself. 

I can't wait to keep writing. 

Kristina Rivera Colón, 15th October, 2023