I buried my mother one year ago today, and not a single moment passes without thinking of her. I see her reflected in so many things, including the objects she once held.
I think of the white enamel baby bathtub she gifted me before she passed. It is older than I am—crafted from a sheet of metal, shaped into an oval, coated in powdered glass, and fired. Enamelware—a centuries-old technology. The basin may have been made in the 1940s, perhaps even used for my brother before me. While we storied so many things, if we ever spoke about where it came from, I don’t recall—only that she wanted me to know it was mine. She shared it with me, knowing I would one day understand the resonance of its meaning.
I imagine her at the stove, warming water in a kettle, pouring it gently into the basin, testing the heat with her wrist, and lining it with a soft cloth to shield my infant skin from the enamel’s chill. I must have cried the first time, or every time, but her comfort was always present—her long arms, her steady hands. I remember looking up at her, our eyes meeting in a silent exchange, conveying the idea that though it seemed frightening, I would be okay.
Decades later, I never imagined I would bathe my mother, trying to offer the same gentleness she once gave me. She also never imagined that moment and cried the first time I bathed her, and perhaps every time. We were both vulnerable—struggling to accept the inevitable—but I always tried to look deep into her eyes to assuage the same fear she had always chased away.
Though he had many sisters and had never bathed his own mother, Juan’s tenderness with my mom revealed a love forged across decades. He made it seem easier than it felt for me. I remember one of her last baths, when she endured a susto that attacked her heart. It took us a moment to realize what was happening, but she slumped over. Juan carefully wrapped her arms around his neck and carried her softly to her bed. She recovered from that moment—she even stood on her own feet, but it was a ritual of touching ground before the flight.
When she passed, I sat with her for a long time. Eventually, I rose to my feet, following an instinct as if I had witnessed it thousands of times. I closed the door, warmed the water, and began to gently wipe the whole of her body, preparing it somehow for a journey. Tears streamed down my face, but though it was painful, the ritual felt profound in its release—and the memory will always be searing in my heart.
This enamel basin now sits in my home, chipped at the edges, silent in its witness. It holds the memory of my first bath—and the memory of her.
