Her right hand gently poured warm water over my chest, while her left cradled my head just above the surface. It was daytime. A soft breeze floated in from the open balcony door behind me.
The woman I looked at as she bathed me was my grandmother. Her name was Rosa. Had it not been for her, I likely wouldn’t have survived the first few days of my life.
The warmth of the water in her hand, the way it touched my skin, felt like floating in pure trust, in love. A knowing I still cannot verbalize.
This is the first recollection of my life, one of only a handful of memories that still fill me with a profound sense of belonging, of being safe. I see the metal tub, placed carefully between two of her wooden chairs. I feel the warm water on my chest. I remember perceivig a kindness as she looked at me, a baby she had chosen to look after despite economic hardship and other struggles.
That memory stands in stark contrast to what came after. But for a brief, golden time, I was the apple of someone’s eye.
And I never thanked her.
Not with words.
Not with time.
Not before she was gone.
I carry that now.
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