SandScript 2022

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Missed Turn
Reed Coffey
Oil on Canvas
Handiwork of a Lazy Priest
Travis Cooper
I watched my great-grandmother’s funeral on
a YouTube live stream from my living room. I wore
pajamas, and so did my dad. We did not travel to Texas
for the service because only people 65 and older could
get the COVID vaccine in Arizona. It was March 2021.
The funeral was short and impersonal. The
priest said Grandmamá was a mother, baptized, and old.
Seriously, that is all he said about her.
A lady wearing an enormous pink t-shirt and
jeans helped the priest with the Mass. During the
service, the lady sat to the right of the lectern. She kept
looking at her watch, and she was not subtle about it.
Dad said that the priest and his helper were
probably tired because they had to bury a lot of people
killed by COVID. Mom grumbled that she does her job
when she is tired.
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After the funeral, my family posted a short video
about Grandmamá online. We had prepared it for the
service, but the priest did not play it. The video included
amazing stories about Grandmamá teaching a dog to talk,
growing a jungle in the desert, raising wild animals as pets,
and catching flies out of the air, like a ninja.
I never saw Grandmamá do any of these things.
She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease before I
was born. She lived in a nursing home two states away,
and I did not see her much. When I did, she never
remembered me. I mean literally never—not even once.
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Mom stayed angry at the priest for a long time
after the funeral. “No one even said her name” became
my mom’s mantra of mourning. Each time she said this,
she followed it with “Patricia Esperanza Vasquez Urias.”
Sometimes she whispered my grandmother’s name, but
mostly she shouted it.
Before Grandmamá died, I knew her first name
was Pat and her last name was Urias. But I had never
heard her full name. I only know it now because the
priest did not say it. If he had, Mom would not have
howled it for days, and it would not be burned into my
14-year-old brain.
Patricia Esperanza Vasquez Urias is a beautiful
name, and I am proud to know it, say it, and write it. But
this is not a sappy essay about how something bad was
actually a blessing. I most definitely do not feel blessed
by these events. And I wish that I could change how I
learned Grandmamá’s name.
I know that I would have discovered it before
I became a father. All babies in my family have at least
one name from a relative. Combing through the family
tree, I would have paused with delight on Patricia
Esperanza Vasquez Urias because it is such a big name
for such a tiny person. I think that my future self would
put Vasquez on the list of middle name contenders, and
Esperanza would have gone straight to the top of the list
of first names for a girl.
That is how it should have happened. Of course,
this scenario probably involves a 15- or 20-year wait.
But the delay would not have bothered me. There was
absolutely no hurry. After all, names were not important
between Grandmamá and me. I was always a stranger
to her. She could not remember my name—or even my
existence. But she loved me anyway.
During visits, Grandmamá asked who I was
with excited anticipation. After Mom explained,
Grandmamá cried and wrapped her small arms around
me. She held me close and called me “mijo,” which
means “my boy.”
A few minutes later, it would happen all over
again—same question, same hug, and same deep, palpable
love. After two or three iterations, Mom sent me to the
park with Dad, so that I did not wear out Grandmamá.
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The last few times that I saw Grandmamá, she
did not ask who I was, and she did not know my mom
anymore. I missed our routine—the question, the hug,
and the love.
The World Will Thank Me
Matthew Ball
Paper Collage
15