The day of her funeral, grandma shut
down traffic on Central Avenue for one
last time. The hearse drove up 8th
Street on way to San Felipe. We made all
downtown late for work. I stared out the
window of the berieved limo as we
followed Grandma for one more cruise
down her favorite streets. Central
Avenue twists and wines like the Aoyos
and Aekias in our neighborhood, like
cottonwood roots. Borque street people
were always in her prayers.
They don't have anybody to take care of
them, she'd say. Give a pocket full of
change or a dollar if she could spare,
but a prayer always. Please take care of
them. Along the way, I caught the eyes
of a few people standing at the curbs
and bus stops. Some prayed before
grandma as we rolled by real slow. She
never liked to drive fast. A little
vieito on the corner of S Pasqual
Street. lowered his eyes until we
passed. Los pubitos of Central Avenue
were the army of angels and saints who
welcomed Grandma home.
She shut Central down. You should have
seen it. Some drivers stuck at the green
lights turned off their stereoss and one
woman glared at us. She could have made
it to work on time if it hadn't have
been this particular morning when a
hearse plus 50 cars strolled through the
intersection at 14th Street.
And when we cruised through Oldtown, we
took the long way around. Just a few
weeks before, the plaza was a summer
bloom of music and laughter. Even San
Felipe himself leapt from his altar and
danced when the church was empty and
silent. Today, his church was silent and
full. Everyone was there. Shame the only
time we all get together is when someone
dies. Grandma outlived all the other
priests, so the new father didn't know
her. But that didn't bother me. Before
the service, he asked my favorite memory
of grandma, and I told him I remember
driving around with her for as long as I
live. During his homaly, father
contemplated heaven. How when we crossed
the gates, we are young again, all our
pains and afflictions cured. I took
communion that day even though I wasn't
supposed to because he who is without
sin cast the first heno.
After the funeral, we cruised Mountain
Road to Calvary Cemetery, the same road
we drove every day when she'd take me to
school. Those days it was real hard to
go to Albuquerque High, knowing my whole
family was dead and buried right across
the street, knowing someday I'd end up
there, too. And that moment in the limo,
I looked at my family, all stoic like
saints, all caught in their own
memories. And Auntie Terry realized from
the front seat, "Don't you think mom
would have liked this last cruise?"
At the cemetery, we said our goodbyes
with roses in her grave. Just before we
lowered Grandma into that holy dirt,
cousin Sylvia played Grandma's favorite
song, Klata and Sema. And I couldn't
help but remember the car radio tuned to
89.1 as I took her for some long good
cruises around town. How she wouldn't
leave the house if she had it her way.
But I'd talk her out of it. Let's just
go get lost for a while. I'd tell her
all the times we didn't have money, but
we had a full tank of gas and that's all
we needed. And I remember the two of us
taking the old road to Suario, making
visits to the Vario churches on Holy
Thursday, driving up West Central to
grab a banana split. Grandma's story so
detailed you would have never known her
memory wasn't what it used to be.
Albuquerque sure has changed, she'd say
at every turn.
Our lives are a cruise down a broken
highway. Sometimes a dirt road.
sometimes paved in gold. Some race to
their deaths. Some take it easy and
don't get too far before their dead end.
Some cruise real slow and take in all
the sights before the gas tank runs
empty.
Today, one year later, Central Avenue is
all torn down. The road is broken open
like a half-dug grave, like a robed
tomb. Today, grandma sits beside me as
we're stuck in downtown traffic. Her
favorite song just came on the radio.
And as we finally catch the green light
at Rio Grand Boulevard, I hear her say,
"We ain't in no hurry anyways. Let's
just enjoy this long drive home one last
time.