Mamita's Notebook

There I was, mid-Tuesday afternoon, staring. Not at a phone or something even remotely interesting to anyone else. I was staring at a mole – right there, in the middle of my right arm. Between ripples and some "un-girly" hair was the one thing that represented a part of me I never understood and the thing that changed everything.

How did I know that? How did I know what was going on in the house without setting foot in it since Mamita died? I wish I knew then what I know now. Everything makes so much sense now.

I knew she was trapped because I dreamt it. She told me. Her arms stretched out as far as they could go, stretched out in front of her, hands and that patio door wide open, lovingly looking at me, not making a sound.

"Come out, let's go for a walk!" my voice so full of joy. I had not seen her in over two years, and this was the closest we'd been since her funeral.

"I can't. I can't leave the house. Help me..." Her soft tone sent shivers down my spine. I was not afraid or confused but instead hit by a wave of sadness so palpable that it seemed to engulf my entire soul along with the body still lying in bed next to my fiancé.

That sadness, that despair, that impotence, it jolted me back. Back to my body. Back to reality.

I spent the next few days Googling, reading article after article. And the next few weeks were full of readings and chats with mediums. I needed answers, and I needed more. So, I turned to the only other person my heart knew would understand – my mother. You see, my Mamita was my mom's mom, my mom's best friend, and somehow also the last keeper of the family secret.

"Bruja," mom whispered as she proudly pointed out the pea-sized mole on my right arm. "Mamita had the gift, and so do you." I went cold. I was shaken. Shaken to my core; and I couldn't snap out of it. So, there I was staring, staring at a mole.

"So, what's next?" I was in such disbelief I'm sure I whispered it. It was then that mom gave me a plain white box that had nothing but an unpolished gold knob and asked me to go home. The box wasn't as heavy as it looked, so I took, loaded it in the car, and drove home in silence. It was just me and the big white box.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but a sharp glance at the oven, and it had only been 11 minutes. It was time. I opened it and found a smaller box full of rocks, a small black notebook, and what looked to be a passbook. I picked up that small black notebook. Its slightly frayed round corners quickly made way for the tight elastic that seemed not to want to stretch again, and as soon as it snapped open, neat and crisp note fell out.

"My girl,

The bank passbook is yours. It was always meant to be you.

Get to know yourself. Share your gift. Give yourself grace, and heal the world.

I love you,

Mamita."

I looked at the passbook. $20,000 dollars. To grow, to heal, to share.

And I did just that: I grew. I healed. I shared. And now I'm here; I'm ready. I'm ready to take on the world, I'm ready to fight, and I'm ready to free my grandma from this place she can't escape.