The nighttime feels tense; a change from what it usually feels like. The usual routine of playing Jeopardy with my family feels less important than usual. Mom isn’t really paying attention to the screen, answering some questions with confidence and others with a slight humor knowing she has no idea what the answer is. I look over at my dad sitting in his usual spot and recognize that he isn’t fully there either; his eyes locked in on his phone with a worried look on his face. Oh well. Must be a busy day at work for him.
He shuts his phone off and plugs his phone in the charger in the kitchen. Must be time for bed. I look at the clock and it reads 9:00 pm. A little earlier than usual, but he must be really tired. I know that work takes a lot out of him sometimes.
“Goodnight dad!” I yell from the living room. “Night,” he says back in a monotone voice. His lack of energy takes me aback a little bit and I finally start wondering what’s up with him? Did I do something? Did something happen at work? I feel my chest tightening as I think of every possibility.
Sydney seems to notice too, asking my mom, “what’s up with Dad?” I desperately look to my mom in the hope of finally getting an answer. “It’s papa” she responds with a sort of empathetic tone. “He’s not really doing too well right now. He’s in the hospital.”
What??! What happened?! It must just be an old age thing. I know some of my friends’ grandparents take a couple hospital trips for things like high blood pressure or an injury that won’t heal. Papa’s a strong guy, nothing gets him down. At least not that I know of.
A photo of my papa
“Is he okay?” Sydney asks in more of a panic. “I’m sure he’ll be better, but they’re keeping an eye out on him right now.” Mom is really good at keeping things positive. I always notice her little smile thing she does when times get a little sensitive. But it’s always followed by a deep exhale; that’s usually not a good sign.
It seems like hours have gone by since the news; it’s been 30 minutes. I try to get my mind off of the potential outcomes for my papa by starting my math homework but it doesn’t do the trick. Finally, my mom walks in my room with tears on her face. Oh no. No it can’t be. That quick? “He’s gone” she says with that same sad smile she always does. I feel a pit open in my chest. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to react. I look at her for a minute, genuinely at a loss for words. Finally I’m able to muster up the word: okay.
I close my bedroom door and lay on my bed, huddling in my covers. My mind is blank, and I honestly don’t feel anything except disbelief. But I start to taste something salty in my mouth. Tears stream uncontrollably down my face despite the fact that I don’t feel any emotion. I have no personal concept of death or grief; this is the first death I’ve encountered. Why now? That was so sudden? I didn’t get to say goodbye? I finally put the pieces together as to why my dad was so down earlier; I wish it was for another reason.
One of the strongest, kindest, funniest, down to earth people in my family, taken away. My dad’s father, my grandfather. I stay for a while, hearing mom and sydney cry into each other’s arms. I stay in my bed. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to see anyone. I’m alone. I don’t know what to do. I have work to do. I can’t do it. I need to do it. I can’t.
My mind races until I hear my bedroom door open. “Oh honey, are you okay?” my mom says to me. I look over and her face is red and stained with tears. All I could do was shake my head and next thing I know, I feel the warmth of her hug against my body. It feels nice. But it can’t fill the hole in my heart that just formed.
My papa’s death was a significant time in my life, serving as the first familial death I had experienced. It marked a turning point in my life, where I felt a sense of maturity after it had happened. It pulled me back to reality after being in a daze due to the new lockdown in response to covid-19. Although it was such a dramatic shift in my life, I still have a difficult time remembering the details. I’m still not 100% of the look of my dad’s face when he was texting my nana asking for updates. I don’t know what we had been watching on the television. What I do know is how I felt; I felt empty.
The concept of sensory memory is extremely valuable in regards to the validity of a memory. We may not remember the exact details of an experience, such as who said what and who was present, but we do remember how we felt both physically and emotionally, what we smelt, what he tasted, and so much more. It brings a sense of accuracy to a memory. As Smith & Watson explain in their book, Reading Autobiography Now, “Memory, apparently so immaterial, personal, and elusive, is always implicated in the materiality of sound, stone, text, garment, integrated circuits and circuit boards, or the materiality of our very bodies-the synapses and electrons of our brains and our nervous systems. Memory is evoked by the senses-smell, taste, touch, sight, sound-and encoded in objects or events with particular meaning for the narrator” (Smith & Watson 39). These physical sensations allow the narrator to recall information from the past and write a reliable story of their experience. The way our brain and body work, transmitting chemical and electrical messengers to send messages and evoke responses, it has the ability to store this information into our memories.
In Solito, Zamora relies heavily on sensory memory, describing every situation he is in in terms of his sensory experiences. One notable example is his experience on the boat, and the intensity of the gasoline; “It takes me two tries to get the gasoline out of my mouth. I can taste it. I can smell it on my skin, but the roses hide it. I got the salt out, but not this… Maybe the smell is trapped in my nose, on my tongue” (Zamora 110). Zamora describes moments like these several other times, describing his physical sensations in a way where the audience can visualize what he had been feeling. These moments help Zamora recount his experience as a child, despite how long ago they had been. Sensory memory is known as one of the most accurate sources of memory, and Zamora utilizes this knowledge to write a precise recollection of his past.
In my experience, I remember the way I felt physically and emotionally. I remember being overwhelmed with a sense of grief despite the unfamiliarity of it all. I remember the comfort of my bed covers and how they encased my body. I remember the warmth and safety of my mom’s hug, helping me cope with the loss of someone I had loved and known for many years. Like Zamora, I can use these past feelings to form my experience in a way that makes sense to me. As Smith & Watson claim, “Mediated through memory and language, ‘experience’ is already an interpretation of the past and of our place in a culturally and historically specific present” (Smith & Watson 59). As I recall my sensations, I can do my best to interpret and reinterpret this significant moment in my life, as a way for me to understand what exactly happened, how I can learn from it, and how it shaped me.
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