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Personal Narrative-Mamaya

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She was always there, for as long as I could remember. Never was there a day that I wouldn’t help her cook. Be it simply mixing up dough I always helped. Every time I walked into the house, a new aroma filled my lungs. I called her Mamaya and though the origin of her nickname was never clear, everyone referred to her as that. She was my favorite abuela. Mamaya was large and round, she always had her hands folded over her stomach. She never let any of the furniture go without a good plastic cover. A very particular woman and a very smart one too. I learned to speak Spanish from her because that was the only language she spoke. The only words she could say in English were “Yes” and “Meadow”. Mamaya and Patony, my grandfather, lived in the basement. …show more content…

I was around 6 at the time and she eloped me in her arms and said “Vete. Deje a mi bebé.” which translates to “Go away. Leave my baby.” I remember this moment so clearly because it made me feel as if I was a piece of art in a museum in which no one could touch me. That feeling of protection and superiority sparked something inside of me that triggered my wanting to treat everyone like that. Like they were worth something. A few years passed by and as she grew older, so did I. I began to grow apart from her as I began to lose my innocence and became more mature. Though I still visited her everyday, the visits grew shorter and shorter. Have I mentioned that she traveled? Well, every summer she would travel back to Chupicuaro, Michoacan, a small town in Mexico. This is where my father, his 3 sisters and 2 brothers where born. Mamaya loved that house. It was an orange pink color. Not very appealing to the eye but it was good enough for her. Mind you, my Patony built that house by hand. It had a …show more content…

I always expected her to come back in one piece. This time was different. The summer of my 8th birthday I bid my farewells to Mamaya and Patony not knowing that this would be the last time I would ever hear her speak. The last time I would ever hear the words, “Te amo.” spoken to me. My father drove them to the airport where they got on a plane to leave for Mexico. I went about my daily business, playing, digging for worms, being a kid. For two days I did this, I was fine. I was counting down the days that they would be back. Then the third day came. As I was busying myself with preparing an imaginary pie for my teddy bear, the phone rang. I ran to pick it up because my mom happened to be sitting on the toilet. I handed it to her and continued to feed my bear. She said “Hi!”. There was a pause as she listened to the response. I waited for her to say something, but nothing was said. All I remember her saying was “Okay.” I walked over to her to ask what was the matter and came face to face with a sobbing mother. I hated seeing her cry, which is what I think may have caused me to cry. Then she told me that Mamaya was not coming back and that I won’t be able to talk to her anymore. As my 8 year old brain processed this, I began to sob. I began to scream. I began to kick. I began to scream and cry and yell that I hated everyone. I cried so hard that I couldn’t breath. I cried so hard that my stomach

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