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TEN YEARS AGO
Lines encompass her ruby red lips. Her skin is like soft leather. Her eyes, so very kind and the exact same shade at Lucky's. Her hair, once a vibrant shade of auburn, is now a withering white. The doctors told her it wouldn't be best to continue dyeing the strands.
I'm sat at the base of her rocking chair, my bottom bony against the cherry wood deck. Lucky's still at baseball practice and abuela sent me to his nana's with a freshly curated Chocoflan. I helped her make it. It's Nana's favorite.
She's wearing her favorite lavender night gown with a sheer, floral floor length cardigan to match. She's always been a stylish woman. If I could compare her to anyone, it'd be Blanche Devereaux. She's got the same spunk, sex appeal, and valor. An emerald ring gleams against the falling sun. The gold band is dainty in comparison to the many other rings adorning her manicured fingers.
"That ring sure is pretty, Celia." I admire the ring blissfully.
She takes a few short tokes from her "magic pipe" is what she calls it, helps with the nausea. She got diagnosed with stage four breast cancer a year ago. She stopped all treatments a few weeks ago. The family was in an uproar, but Celia—all graced and poised—said, "I've lived a beautiful life. I can't handle those treatments, and I won't turn into a woman I can no longer recognize, or leave y'all with that image of me. Now, I'm going out for a smoke. Don't sit here and sulk about it."
