I remember her white nightgown, the typical campo style worn in Mexico, her long flowing black hair on both sides of her face. I was in awe of this Mexican beauty, my beautiful mother, Alexandria. Everything was white in her room, the light was brilliant almost as if there were an aura around her. She was lovingly holding a baby. Later I learned he was my brother, little Andrew. She smiled and stroked his his head gently and with the back of her hand she touched his face. It was surreal, magical and confusing.
I felt like an intruder, maybe that was the word, I don't know for sure; I was just a little girl. I thought she looked like a Madonna, holding the Christ child. I remember those images from church. She looked so sad.
It frightened me to see her cry, tears falling down her face and she sobbed quietly and held the baby tight to her chest. I had never seen mother cry before.I felt frozen;I wanted to help my mother, but I could not. I prayed she would not see me.This was a grown up thing. I did not understand. But I just wanted her to smile again.
I had witnessed a sacred moment; Andrew died a few days later...