To say that Mom almost crashes the car every time we go to Nona's house would be an understatement. It's the way the headlights only show a few feet in front of you, the surprise of the sharp turns, the way the GPS cuts out as you lose cell reception.
That's what warns you that you're headed to an unsafe place. The shriveled woman that opens the door, who hasn't been seen without the black veil to match her beady, black eyes confirms it.
"Relax, it's only for one night," Mom whispers.
When your foot first hits the ground in Nona's house, you can hear the floorboards screech back at you. It makes you wonder if there isn't something else living under the wood. It makes you wonder what the walls would say, if they could speak.
And those eyes. No, not her eyes.
The eyes of the saints that rest on the entranceway table, of Jesus, who casts His glance down at you on the cross. The way Nono's eyes stare out of the picture frame: his panicked pupils cast against his calm smile.
What would the mouths confess, if they could speak?
Nono walked three miles a day, never missed Sunday mass, and grew to love his wife and family more and more each day. With outstanding physical, spiritual and emotional health, I always imagined that he would pass peacefully in his sleep, not due to a sudden heart attack.
We invited Nona to live with us, but she refused to depend on other people. Whenever Mom called, she wouldn’t answer the phone. She didn’t hear it ring, she’d say.
We respected her privacy. Although, you couldn’t help but wonder what Nona hides in this secluded, little house.