Happy Birthday, Mom.

I wrote the following piece for an English course I took in school. It was a definition piece, where I supposed to define anything I wanted. I chose my family, and I do so through a fictitious get together reminiscent of our typical family parties. I'm posting it today to celebrate my mother's birthday. Eight years ago, her life was tragically cut short, today she would be celebrating her 52th birthday. But tomorrow is never promised to us, and today is only borrowed. For this, we should cherish every moment above ground.

Defining My Family.

I drink Bourbon; Booker’s if I can afford it, Jim Beam since I can’t. My brother pours me the first shot of the evening. The shot glasses are lined up side by side, five in all, one for me, one for my older brother Danny, my oldest brother Yulio, Fernando, a brother by choice, and my little sister Darleen. Yulio lifts his glass in toast. “Salud!” he shouts. The Spanish phrase means health, but he only says it for decorative value, it’s something to say. I take the shot down as my face grows hot, then I gasp a little, a mistake in my family, and one that they don’t miss.

“What’s the matter Nancy?” I hear shouted out, but I ignore it.

My sister comes up behind me and grabs my shoulder. She whispers, “That was for us, but I got a bottle of Limon for Mom. Not till later though, aight?”

I remember my mother then, and since she’s passed away these get-togethers happen a lot less. If she were alive right now, she’d love this scene. She always loved the symphony of voices clogging the air with memories, the children laughing and playing, and the smell of the roasted pork shoulder cooking in the oven.

A table stands proudly displaying the various plates we all brought with us. Well, they brought, I never bring a dish. My sister is expected to bring her special potato salad since she’s always broke and the dish is relatively cheap to make, so it’s hers to make. I used to wonder why she called it her “special” potato salad, but my sister is the definitive hoodrat, so I don’t want to know anymore.

A couple of pans of Spanish rice glow amidst the dishes, one was brought by my older brother Danny’s wife, the other was cooked here by Yulio’s wife Sarah. The former is yellow rice with sausage and corn made just for me, the latter; yellow with beans. I don’t eat beans.

Along with the main dishes, there are the desserts. Sarah has made her marshmallow cheesecake, and Danny’s wife Cathy has made a Flan, which is a custard like treat. My sisters’ kids have made a pie which looks, um, interesting. They claim it is apple-banana, but we may never know for sure. The girls have all made cookies for the event, various shapes and sizes, but mostly hearts.

I hear my new name for the evening being beckoned at the row of shot glasses, and I join them gladly, ignoring my new feminine moniker. They’ve cracked open a bottle of champagne, and my brother Danny says the toast; “Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my cham friends! Salud!”

“Salud!” we all reply in unison.

“Hey!” Yulio reply’s with a start, “To Costa Rica, too.”

“Yeah,” I start in, “To Costa Rica, only six revolutions till were Mexican.”

My brother begins to tell of the idiocy of my remark, and to tell of the beauty of our supposed native land. I’m only half Costa Rican, the other half is Puerto Rican, and so I could care less. I leave before he begins to tell me why Costa Rica is paradise.

I head over to the children. My daughter, a seven year old red headed fireball of energy, is leading a dance off to a High School Musical number that I now know by heart. Yulio’s daughter, a six year old doll, joins in along with her little brother and my sister’s armies of kids-three in all-also begin dancing. My daughter spots me, and requests my hand in the dance. I join in, and we all begin to “Bop to the top” I wipe away my inhibitions as the anarchy these kids call dancing erupts around me. They grow bored with me after my first set, so I excuse myself to the kitchen were my brother is still talking about Costa Rica. My sister pulls out a bottle of Bacardi Limon, my mother’s favorite drink. We all notice it, and quickly head towards the row of shot glasses.

The five glasses are still in place, only now, three more have emerged. The wives have joined in. The glasses are filled, and then lifted to the air. I glance around at the people around me, this is my family. I wish I could get this more often. My sister says the toast now.

“To mom and the family she left behind. Salud!”