She’s in Everything

It’s been five months since my mom died, and a few days more.

I am writing a book about her death called Two Months to Live. I wrote the first part as things were happening while she was sick in Colombia. It was a way to keep myself grounded and to release my feelings after spending all day holding it together in front of her.

In the days immediately before her death, and the days after, I was too busy to write. Back in Miami, it took me a long time to gather the courage to open the file again and continue writing about those days—when she died, and the hours that followed.

I finally did it this week.

I had to write the day she died from memory—the minutes and hours after. I made it as far as the funerary service and stopped there. I cried the entire time. I told myself I would do it once a week, and that was enough for this week.

At the same time, I am rewriting in digital format everything I wrote as a child. I found all of it while emptying her closet. There were notebooks, loose papers, full stories, half-finished stories, essays.

I am amazed by how much of her is in my writing. How clearly I can hear her voice when I read what I wrote as a child. She’s so alive, even though I can’t call her.

She lives in every thought, every word, every drawing, every movement of my hand, every laugh.

She is so alive in all my writing that it has become the strongest fire motivating me to put it out there—to make space for all of this, to take it seriously, and to show it without fear.

To trust myself as much as she did.

After Finishing the Translation of My First Book

It was a journey to publish in my native language, Spanish. I went back and forth with the book for almost seven years and finally managed to publish it in 2024. It’s called La Última Margaret Keane and it’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, and Barnes & Noble.

I am very proud of its existence.

However, once it was published, some sort of postpartum depression came over me, and what had once been the joy of writing became the shame of not selling as many copies as I had imagined, of not hearing feedback from people who bought it, of knowing that some people started it and didn’t finish it.

I stopped working on the marketing side of it and stored the few copies I had in the least-used drawer of my apartment so I wouldn’t accidentally run into them.

When the publisher sent me the English version for review, my mind was somewhere else—taking care of my mother and, ultimately, seeing her die.

Caretaking for a dying loved one, as an artist, becomes a creative process. It becomes the challenge of hiding your feelings while you are functioning and then finding space to let them out, reminding yourself how to let them out after long periods of pushing them inward.

We found out in July that my mom had two months to live, so I stayed with my parents during that time. My outlet became an upcoming book about that period called Two Months to Live. It will take a little longer to be published because once the functional part was done—once life had to continue “as usual”—it became too painful to dive into that internal pool of feelings.

It’s been five months, and I finally finished reviewing the translation of that first book. I sent it back to the editor a week ago.

I know my mom would be proud. She always knew I would be a writer.

And here I am, trying again—motivated once more.

The English version of The Last Margaret Keane will be published soon.

Not crying your sorrows.

I go to the gym three times a week before work—usually Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays: upper body, core, and lower body, respectively.

Today was leg day. Lower body. The most important day, since those are the biggest muscles in our bodies. Also the one I care about the most, because I don’t want my butt to reveal my age.

I woke up at 6:50, changed my pajamas for a black onesie and sneakers, brushed my teeth, tied my hair, and left the apartment at 7 a.m. to walk to the gym and join the class starting at 7:10. I had signed up the night before, since this is the only way I ever go to the gym—if a previous version of myself signs me up in advance, so the morning version of myself isn’t making decisions from under the blankets.

I made it on time and did the first round of exercises, which involved holding a weighted disk in front of my chest while squatting up and down. No problem.

The next exercise was holding two very long, heavy ropes, lifting them to make waves five times, and then switching to a push-up in a plank position. This is not a leg exercise, I thought, when out of nowhere the music hit me. It was a fast version of “Stay with Me” by Sam Smith, and it immediately brought the thought of my mom, who passed away exactly four months ago today.

Tears filled my eyes as I held the ropes and counted to five before switching to the push-up. I managed to keep them at bay and somehow let them sink back into my eyes—until the chorus hit again:

won’t you… staaaaay with meeeee…’cause you’re aaaaall I need…

Tears again. This time my whole face transformed: my mouth started shaking, leaving a bitter taste, lips flipping into an upside-down smile, the lower lip pushing up.

Once again, I managed to hold the tears, finish my round of ropes and push-ups, and move on to the next exercise without having to wipe my eyes with gym fingers. I already knew I had to give it time. I have to schedule time in my calendar to cry her absence, just as deliberately as I schedule time to go to the gym.

Something I’m learning from grief is that tears have a life of their own. They are demanding, and they will come when you least expect them if you don’t give them time and attention.