This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, March 23, 2011 - Petrona's end was mercifully quick. She had had a leg amputated a couple years ago, due to diabetes, and had recently taken a turn for the worse when her other leg deteriorated beyond repair.
Her beautiful face, her eyes already blind, was the last "flattering" picture I could take. When they said she could no longer swallow, I didn't want to think about it.
I went every day, the 20-minute or so walk across the bridge over to Paraiso. Lots of folks did, including family from La Catorce, where Beto the blind boy lives. Petrona was his aunt.
Her final days coincided with Paraiso's annual fiesta, celebrating the Patron of their little church, Our Lady of Suyapa, Suyapa being a poor village on the northern coast of Honduras where long ago fishermen found a seemingly miraculous image of the Virgin Mary carved in a piece of driftwood.
Usually a town's fiesta includes lots of games, like an eating contest, competitions like climbing the greased pole, and soccer matches -- and drunks. It's a big money-maker. But this time, the word went out: With Petrona's illness, the only celebration would be prayer.
A Mass with a visiting priest from Panama, Padre Luis Carlos (Padre "Lucho") was dynamic and enthusiastic. That was in the church; everything else would be at Petrona's house. The celebration for the feast day itself, Feb. 3, went long into the night, and we all watched Petrona carefully, lest we overdo it. But she would weakly raise one arm with every song, in time with the music, as if directing a choir. And when it was over about 11 p.m., she insisted, with the little strength still available to her, "Otro canto, otro canto." (Sing another song.) So we just kept going.
That was Thursday night. When I went on Friday, she looked bad, gaunt and frowning. But on Saturday she was sleeping, curled up with her pillow, silent and serene. On Sunday, it was my turn to preach at the morning service in Las Vegas, and since in the gospel reading Jesus called his disciples "the light of the world" and "the salt of the earth," I mostly spoke about Petrona.
In the afternoon, when Beto came from La Catorce, we went over there. And now, I saw the signs of imminent death, Petrona's featureless face, unblinking eyes, and short, gasping breaths. About 6 p.m., I invited Beto to supper over at Natalia's. While we were eating, word comes that Petrona has, in fact, died. Simple as that.
I go home and get my chairs ready to haul over there. Indeed, as soon as Beto and I got back to Paraiso, they were revving up a truck, worst driver I ever saw, but we got here and back with my 33 chairs, while others were carrying benches from the church. Twitter could not have spread the word faster, as the house and yard filled with mourners. It fell to me to give the eulogy. I just said that Petrona had become the true Patron ('patrona') of the feast this year, and we would never be the same. We stayed all night.
Her burial Monday afternoon was simple, but the strain of final separation brought howls and wails from daughter Telma and son Jacob, whose young wife is expecting their first child very soon. Then the novenario began, nine days of prayer. Paraiso proved its salt and light once again; there was more active participation from folks than you ever see in Las Vegas, telling stories, comments on the scripture readings, dialogs and, of course, songs. But with the month or so of constant care, the exhaustion did not disappear till about halfway through, when folks had finally caught up on their sleep. The nine days ended and we took all the flowers and wreaths and the cross to Petrona's grave.
My oddest memory of Petrona's final days was something just so dumb I'm embarrassed by it. I got blisters on my feet. Here I am almost eight years in Honduras and I'm still a tenderfoot! But I guess I had it pretty good, compared to Hector Manuel from Terrero Blanco. I had no feet, but he had no ass -- donkey, that is.
He and his brothers bring firewood to sell, usually loaded on their animals. Hector showed up the other day with the whole load on his own back, a 90-minute trip down the mountain. His donkey had suddenly died. When I saw Hector, bowed and trembling under the weight, and sweating like a ... donkey, I wanted to relieve him immediately, but I had to send him down to Natalia's by the river. Once the delivery was made, he drank at least half a gallon of the cool water I provided from my fridge. I'd really love to buy him a new donkey for a thousand Lempiras (about 50 dollars); not only does he have epilepsy that we treat with a steady diet of Phenobarbital, but his father is the stinkingest drunk around. The trick will be to keep dad from selling the donkey for more drink....
And then, school started. Chemo is in fourth grade, outstanding in his class, literally. He's 16 surrounded by 8-year-olds. But his teacher Juana Maria makes no mention of the anomaly, unlike some teachers I've heard about who actually make fun of their bigger students.
The schoolwork has ratcheted up some, with lots more reading and writing, as you would expect, but Chemo is holding his own. Helping him stay focused are his nieces, nephew, and cousins who just returned from three months of coffee picking. And they all started school the next day, some for the first time. If I had anything to do with it, I am very proud that I've kept up the drumbeat to get the kids into school.
Now that the coffee picking season is over, we got our first look at little Dago, Daguito, born in El Transito last December to Dania and Marcos. Daguito, of course, is named for his uncle who died, and we cling to that, we plant that faith deep in our mind, how life goes on, even if we must repeat it to keep our hope alive. Dream on.
About the Author
Miguel Dulick has lived in Las Vegas, Honduras since 2003. There he has no projects, no plans, no investments -- only to share the life of the poor. For years he has been sending reports back to friends and family in St. Louis, and the Beacon is proud to become a part of his circle.