My grandmother used to proudly tell me we had the same legs: ample, muscular, and powerful. But I was never fond of my legs. To me, they were flabby, enormous, and unappealing. I often wished for different legs, ones I would not feel obligated to keep covered with baggy pants. However, I never told her my true feelings about my legs.

When I was in elementary school, she preferred to walk home from work rather than let my grandfather drive her. With each walk, her legs became more defined. I remember her always being on her feet, usually cooking at her stove or lugging laundry back and forth to our neighborhood laundromat. In her younger days, before I was born, she ran a successful convenience store in Ecuador. Of course, she hardly ever sat down.
As I got older, sometimes I wore shorts because Houston can be very hot, no matter the season. Anytime I wore shorts, my grandmother reminded me of where I got my legs from. She’d tell me I was beautiful and she was happy I inherited a piece of her. Unfortunately, her comments never stuck with me. So, I stuck to baggy clothes, even on the hottest days.

When I was in high school, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. Her prognosis looked bleak, and I was truly shocked when she was declared cancer-free a year later. But not long after her victory, she began acting strangely. I watched her dance to nonexistent music in her kitchen. Other times, she’d stop whatever she was doing and recite Ecuador’s National Anthem. Then, in the late evenings, according to my grandfather, a man dressed in white would visit her. She would eagerly speak to the mystery man, as if he were an old friend. My grandfather assumed the hallucinations were a side effect of her chemotherapy treatments and would resolve as she continued healing.

Yet as time passed, my grandmother’s behavior did not return to normal. She constantly forgot how to use her washer and dryer. She would get lost in her own home and would cry because she couldn’t find her bedroom. Worst of all, she began telling me stories of a man who was following her everywhere, even to the bathroom. As a result, she only wanted to use the bathroom in the dark so he wouldn’t be able to see her. Then the man was with her at her doctor’s office, the grocery store, and inside my car whenever I gave her a ride. Eventually, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. One evening, through a river of tears, she begged me to do something about the mystery man because she felt helpless. I assured her I was going to call the police and file a stalking report, and she regained her composure. It was the first time I ever saw her shattered.

A few months later, my grandfather suddenly died from a heart attack, and my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s worsened. She experienced fits of rage, sadness, and fear. Additionally, the mystery man now had family members who would follow her, too. She told me about the man’s wife stealing her clothes and the man’s children breaking her possessions and laughing at her. To make matters worse, she was diagnosed with cancer again, this time an incurable one. Since her overall physical and mental condition was far from optimal, her oncologist decided it was better not to put her through chemotherapy a second time. Soon, Alzheimer’s conquered her. She could no longer speak and eventually, she could not walk either. In what seemed like a flash, our conversation days were over. She never mentioned our similar legs again. And since she was bedridden, she lost muscle in her formerly stoic legs. The more time passed, the bonier her legs became.

Despite her ailments, my grandmother lived much longer than any of her doctors expected. She died in 2023 after years of deteriorating. During her final months, her face and body declined to a point where she was barely recognizable, and her weight shrunk to seventy pounds. I was nervous about her funeral because I thought she would look morbid. Embalmers are certainly talented, but they are not miracle workers. The moment I saw her, my jaw dropped. She wore her favorite blue dress, pearl jewelry, and makeup. Her expression was peaceful, like she was taking a much-needed nap. Her hair was smoothly combed, just the way she preferred to style it. After over six years of watching her decline, I had forgotten what she really looked like. Underneath numerous layers of struggles and sickness, Abuelita remained immaculately beautiful. But her legs remained hidden under the lower lid of the coffin and mine were also hidden in a pair of black pants about a size too large. As Abuelita was put to rest, I realized I had to finally put something to rest as well.

The next morning, I went for a walk in the summer heat, wearing shorts to show the world what she gave me.