In my office, I have this crucifix on my wall. It’s old and weathered. The Jesus on it is black and looks more like a silhouette of the man than the fleshy Jesus I’m accustomed to seeing.
So this morning, while sitting my twenty minutes with Jesus, a thought occurred to me: where did I get this cross?
I don’t remember buying it.
I don’t remember anyone gifting it to me.
I want to say it belonged to my Tia Ramona and that somehow I ended up with it.
I hadn’t thought of my Tia Ramona in a long time.
My Tia Ramona was my mom’s aunt. Manuel, my grandfather, had two sisters, Petra and Romana.
My Tia Ramona lived most of her life in Los Angeles. Her husband, Pete, passed away before I ever met him. Mom probably knows the dates. All I knew about him was that he was Filipino. And the only reason I remember this is because we went to either his sister’s or mom’s house before we brought my Tia Ramona back to Texas.
The old lady loved me. I don’t know why, but I remember her hugging me a lot. And their house had all this exotic Asian stuff on the walls.
See, my Tia had an aggressive form of Cancer. They had removed the pallet of her mouth.
According to mom, my Tia Romana and Tío Pete were heavy smokers. “They’d get up in the morning and smoke half a pack of cigarettes and down two pots of black coffee to start their day.” And this was before they put filters on cigarettes.
My brother and dad drove a borrowed truck back to Texas with my Tia’s stuff. My mom, Tia, and I flew Southwest. I sat in the window seat, eager for one of my first plane rides. My Tia sat next to me. And she saw that I hadn’t put on my seat belt. So she tried to put it on me. “I’ll get it, Tia,” I told her. Her hands were thin and frail. She patted me after I buckled it up. The other thing I remember about that flight is that we flew over the Pacific Ocean for a spell. I didn’t know bodies of water were made that big.
One day, while at school, I had this overwhelming sense of dread for some reason. Don’t ask me why. I begged my teacher to let me go early to check on my aunt, but she said no. The last bell crawled to ring.
I remember racing home, half expecting to find my Tia has passed away. Alas, she was still in her room, doing her treatment. She smiled when she saw me. Almost as if saying, “not yet, but soon.”
My Tia Romana didn’t live that long after she moved in. I want to say she died a couple of months after she moved in.
Once, while at a local nightclub, this psychic had set up a table. My friend was eager to prove it was a bunk. He plopped down twenty bucks along with his hand. After a while, he got up, stupefied, his eyes watery. “That lady knows things she shouldn’t know.”
“Bull,” I said and went down and threw down my twenty.
She told me three things that leveled me.
Tracing my “lifeline,” she looked at the one spot and said, “it’s odd...you stop here.”
“Stop?”
“Yes, like either you drop out of school or..., but it isn’t that...you just stop,” she said. “But you keep going.”
The morning after waking up from Coma, I was looking at my hand and suddenly understood. I was dead for four whole minutes before being brought back.
But back in that nightclub, I was like, sure lady, whatever you say.
Then, she said this: “you're being watched. Someone is watching over you.”
“Okay,” I said. They always say this; it’s part of their stick.
“I’m smelling something...you associate this person with a strong smell.” Oh, no, I thought, knowing where the medium was going because I knew what she was talking about.
The one thing I remember about Cancer is the smell. A rancid smell mixed with the sweet smell of band-aids. That was what Tia Ramona smelled like all the time. But the stench wasn’t revolting or making you nauseous. It was strangely alluring.
The second she mentioned the smell, it all came back. The way she smacked her lips when she talked, her withered skeletal frame bundled in a dirty pink robe, the sheik-like head wrapping on her thinning head, her gaunt face with a huge purple bruise that protruded out of her cheek.
But it wasn’t all. I only knew the woman for a short time but loved her. She was my mother’s aunt, but I felt she was mine as well.
But maybe this psychic was just reaching for a connection; we all have someone, don’t we?
The medium sensed my disbelief, and then she reached into whatever realm they go for things and said, “she wants to keep you safe. I see a seatbelt...”
I took my hand back, “I’m done now.” And got up and drank the night away.
I looked at my hand, thinking it had betrayed me and let someone into my secrets. And hated it. Back then, I didn’t want anyone to see the mess I was making of my life. I didn’t need an audience sans God.
Just to note: years ago, I remembered the Medium and the things she told me. The second Secret is mine. But I confessed I’d sat down with a psychic in hopes the other things she told me, don’t come true. I’m trusting God on that score, and don’t worry about it.
At night, alone in my room, which had been hers, the putrid smell of rotting flesh devoured by cancer and painkillers would wash over me. She’s here, I’d think. And stare into the darkness, half-expecting to see some ghostly visage of her. Some nights, say “Hiya, Tia.” Thank God, I never saw anything, but still felt she was with me, watching.
And now, the cross is hanging in my office.
Mom confirmed the cross belonged to my Tío Pete. Bought in the Philippines some fifty years ago, hung in a house in LA, and now hangs in my office here in Texas.
I can only imagine the prayers said to Jesus on it. My Tio Pete’s prayers, my Tia’s prayers, and now mine. Then, maybe with love, it will hear The Kid’s prayers.
One can only hope.