Do Dog Mothers Count?

I received very kind messages on Mother’s Day from family and friends who probably thought it would be a hard day for me since it’s the first one without my mom, and since, despite all of my efforts, I haven’t been able to become one.

Surprisingly, I didn’t feel too bad that day. I have felt worse on ordinary Tuesdays. I had this calm desire to take care of myself, my dog included as an extension of me, to take care of my needs, worry only about the wrinkles in my neck, my hair, my outfit, her walks, her food.

That day, I felt glad I don’t have kids to take care of, and hesitated about even wanting them for the future.

That day I got a rose from the girl at the front desk, and my husband asked, “Do dog mothers count?” I said of course, and knew he wouldn’t say anything else or make an attempt to acknowledge the day for me in any way — that’s not his way to show love — but that didn’t bother me either.

He left for work, and I sat on the couch and watched a show about a girl having relationship issues, not worth recommending, but it’s my comfort show.

I dyed my hair and then took a very long shower, one with a speaker and a candle. I exfoliated my skin and applied slowly all the recommended skincare steps afterwards.

I put some food in the crockpot so it would be ready at night, took my dog out for a walk, and then went back to the couch and the show.

I lost my mother and I lost many attempts, each one with a name I had already given them, trying to become one.

But on Mother’s Day, I didn’t care. That day I just wanted to worry about me, my dog, my hair, the wrinkles in my neck.

A Universe in the Making

When the Spanish version of my book, The Last Margaret Keane, came out, the publisher invited me to participate in the LeaLA Festival in Los Angeles.

My husband and I drove from Phoenix, where we were visiting his parents, to attend.

Sadly, my books didn’t arrive on time, so I didn’t have anything to sell at my table.

The publisher had given me a table where I was supposed to have one hour to display my book and try to sell it. I had made a banner that came out beautiful, and I sat there with just two copies — the ones my in-laws had bought and let me bring on the trip so I could at least have something to show.

I still managed to talk to many people about the book, and it was exciting to see that I could have sold copies if I had had them there.

I realized that most tables from other authors had more than just one book. It made me want to create something else for spaces like that.

There has always been a strong connection in my mind between images and writing — what I can describe with words and what I need to show more explicitly.

While I was writing the book, I was also painting. I even tried drawing on a digital tablet, which didn’t turn out very well. I still have those paintings. Some of them are for sale on my website, but most of them are just sitting in my house — some framed, some tucked away in a closet.

They are a big part of the book.

I wanted to continue developing that connection between images and writing.

That’s how the idea of the fanzines started to take form. It felt like something that could naturally combine both.

Now I’m expanding that. I’ve ordered postcards and stickers of some of the pages, and since Letters From Miami is a monthly zine, I have to keep producing them — a good problem to have.

What I see now is not just a series of books, but a whole universe.

A universe that isn’t intended for kids, since the books have adult themes, but that kids seem to be very drawn to, thanks to the colorful images.

I’m realizing that, without planning it, this universe is taking form.

A way of storytelling that uses images, colors, and forms to communicate feelings that go beyond words.

From The Mud Pit

There is now on Netflix a documentary called The Truth and Tragedy of Moriah Wilson. A very young girl was killed by another young girl over a boy they both liked.

They interview the mother of the deceased, Moriah, and at some point, she says, “Grief is like a mud pit. You can go around it and around it, trying to avoid getting in the mud, but the only way to get to the other side is through it.”

I am realizing now that I am finally in the mud.

It’s been six months since my mom left her body, and I am finally going through it.

I had been sad, I had cried and missed her, but I was busy. I found many ways to stay busy, not intentionally, but maybe as a way to protect myself from myself, as a way to delay the pain.

I am not sure if it’s the books I have been reading or the fact that I have more time now, but the way I thought I was “going through it” has changed completely.

I thought grieving my mom wasn’t even that hard, that I was doing great despite missing her so much. The acupuncturist told me early on that it takes about a year or a year and a half. I thought I was already halfway through and feeling reasonably good.

But lately, something woke up in my body, in my mind, that is taking all the air I need to breathe. I can’t seem to focus or find motivation to do anything, but I’m also unable to relax and do nothing.

I am somehow restless and paralyzed at the same time.

My arms hurt and feel heavy. My chest hurts—not in a scary way, but as if a big bubble of sadness is taking up all the space, pressing against my lungs and all my organs.

I am crying now. A lot. And it’s not fulfilling as it was before. I was dedicating some time here and there to crying and then resuming my everyday tasks, feeling relieved. Now crying just leads to more crying, to feeling weaker, heavier.

Joan Didion says in her book The Year of Magical Thinking that crying and mourning death used to be a public affair, that people would gather in the house of the deceased and take care of their loved ones so they could cry.

She says that now crying happens in private, that there is so much focus on “feeling good” that it is not fashionable to cry in front of others and burden them with our sorrows.

I have this so deeply engraved in my mind that I even feel guilty for crying in front of my dog, since she can read my body language and know when I am suffering, which in turn would make her suffer.