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The mother of all mothers
Mamá Lolita is how we used to call her. The mother of all mothers. The Queen. Red hair and a cigarette. A laugh and a scold. “Pinches escuincles, Who took my Yakults?” she would half scream. Pinches escuincles, little brats in mexican spanish, was the chosen name for those who were at least two generations under her who, like me, tried to take one her Yakults. Little bottles of white elixir. Lactobacillus casei shirota. Fermented milk, basically. Nourishment for the early and late years in life.
The fridge. Her night table. Her purse. On the sides of the couch cushions. Everywhere she kept Yakults. A demonic pact for her astounding beauty maybe. She carried herself with a serpentlike grace, mesmerizing all beings around her. Even time stopped to stare at her, seconds would become minutes waiting for her to look back. When we went to visit, time was just another guest.
Married at 17. Three daughters later, a divorce. A woman, independent. Two contraries in the mexican macho mind of the 1950s. Currently, the only woman in my family who has actually left a broken marriage to heal on her own. The great grandmother, the matriarch. Respected by all. Not loved by all.
“Hush, come here, I have something for you”, then, a Yakult emerging through her fingers out from her purse. “Don’t tell”. To those who she chose to let in, a Yakult she gave to let us know. A Yakult from Mamá Lolita was an instant entry to the cult of Her, from then on you became instantly protected from every possible attack or accusation from the family. She would protect you now. I remember running towards her and sliding under her skirt, my mom following suit trying to punish me for some trick I played on her. Mamá Lolita would give her a sly smile and it would be over. My mom would just give up and laugh.
Those of us who got Yakults would be envied by those who didn’t. She made it clear who she liked and who was a disgrace in her eyes. Two families in one. The others, those not part of the cult of Her, even composed a song wishing for her death. I never understood them when I was younger, why would you wish someone’s death over not getting a Yakult?
Never after her death did I see a Yakult in my house again, I haven’t had one since she’s gone.
Birth and death have a similar path, or perhaps a more precise observation would be that birth and death could be doors to the same mystical place. I can’t help but imagine milk plays some kind of role in this game, in my great grandmother’s life. Breast milk first, aged milk to finish.
