It’s my first night with my host family. 

I am settling in to my first night here and I saw something that made me think of Nana. Well, a lot of things make me think of Nana. 

But in particular, as I was arreglando mis cosas, I unearthed a rosary pouch labeled “My Rosary” in Lucida Handwriting font, probably. On the flip side it says “Pope John Paul II, May 18, 1920-April 2, 2005.” I haven’t mentioned Nana’s passing to any of the volunteers except Cristina. It was at 7am at the airport in Houston. Her eyes rounded to the size of cicadas and she hugged me, instantly understanding what Nana’s loss must have meant for me. 

Some time between putting on my brand-new “Namastay in Bed” fleece (with tags on AND from Goodwill, double win) and picking up the rosary I thought: I bet Nana would be proud of me. You see, she did not like anything about the fact I was coming to Peace Corps. Of course she would impart the dramatics encouraged by the old-school mentality about going anywhere other than the US, and she didn’t want me to go. But really, she didn’t want me to do Peace Corps because she didn’t want me to go anywhere. Not the grocery store, not the other corner of the room. And to be honest, her dementia so clouded her mind that it didn’t make a difference if I was in Alaska, Guatemala or the Eiffel Tower. Key word: stay. Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Namastay with me, if you like. 

She would say to my parents: “I just wish those girls lived here. I can’t understand why they don’t live here anymore.” I would say “Well Nana, I am a grown lady!” and she would say “Oh I know” and wave it off “But I still wish you lived here.” No importa. We should still be at my parents’ house. My sister got married and I still don’t think it mattered. (I mean, she did ask Adrienne at the wedding reception when she and Chris were getting married).. 

Nana was my angel, there wasn’t anything I couldn’t tell her or confide to her. We had the funniest talks about anything you can imagine. I knew this when I was younger but in my adulthood we became even closer. As I grew into my own independence, hers frayed a fizzled. On frustrating days, she said “Send them to your Nana, I’ll take care of ‘em.” On defeated days, she said “It’s comin’, behbeh.” On lonely days she said “You’re prince will come.” And everyday I ever spoke to her, ever, she said “I love you.” Every time. 

And every single day, certainly at least twice a day, she did her rosary. Now I am holding one of her rosaries with me here in this semi-outdoor patio bedroom in Guatemala. This is not a place she could ever conceptualize that I would be. 

This is a Catholic household. There are crosses and rosaries in every corner to the point that it feels like an Easter egg hunt. There is even a golden rosary propped on the ledge in the interior of the bathroom door. My host mother’s name is Rosa Maria. The ‘pila’ (sink) in the house is overlooked by a statue of Mary, out of the base of the statue flows the fountain water. Nana would like Rosa Maria, mi mama anfitriona.

And Nana would be proud. She wouldn’t perhaps grasp what I am doing, hell I’m not sure about that part myself, but I know that she would be proud. 

And then I cried. Not like a cascada instantánea, pero a small wave that builds from the ocean and turns over at your feet leaving an odd fuzz.

I lifted the plastic beads and metal rosary out of the pouch. I didn’t grow up looking at rosaries unless I was with Nana or my other Grandmother. They have become more beautiful to me in the aftermath of Nana’s death. I felt something else in the pouch, something small: it was part of my Nana’s thumbnail, painted bright pink. 

Nana always had her nails done. They were long, they were beautiful and they were always painted. Perhaps carryover from her days as a secretary. She could be in a state of complete duress and pause to request that you fix her nails, prostrate and beside herself in the hospital bed. And we did.

But it appears that she lost a nail, at least 2 cm long, and deposited it in her zipper pouch. The curve of the nail is exactly as I remember, they were truly perfect. Probably she was at mass and didn’t have time to properly dispose of the nail, so she held onto it. 

She held onto it so long that I inherited it on accident with the rosary. Two for one. 

I should explain the significance of the fingernail: I knew her nails so very well. I spoke of her hands in my eulogy or “Memory Share” during her funeral misa. And when we were together just after she passed, our nails were the same exact color. On accident. She never wore a coral that bright and I nearly removed it before I got there. It was another reminder, we had/have a connection. 

Any other person’s fingernail would be disgusting, it’s only trash. But this is Nana’s. It might have been a little weird but mostly, something so normal and so dismissable was the best thing I could have happened upon at that moment. As I am in a totally new, unfamiliar place, she can surprise me with something so personal, weird and routine like a fingernail. I couldn’t tell her that I was in Guatemala, that I was being brave and embracing uncertainty and committing to two years of cultural unfamiliarity. And then she reminded me that she is always with me. It’s what she told me before she died.

So I cried.

I cried into the same type of tissue that I put into her breast pocket of her pink shirt before she was buried. 

It’s a pink and white striped facial tissue with a French-style “N” on it. Obviously it was the initial for Natalie (probably a stocking stuffer from my Mom) but when I found them stuffed in my purse at the viewing, it became N for Nana.Nana often had tissues wrapped in her precious hands, I want her to have one with her if she ever needs it. I brought the same tissues with me to Guatemala in case I need tissues.

Today Doña Rosa Maria knocked on my metal door, I opened with a smile (I’m close to the door no matter where I am in my room). She said “Nati, anoche voy a ir a una misa. En la iglesia catolica, cuando uno persona muere, despues de nueve días, tenemos una misa para ellos.” (This is not how she said it, because she said it in Spanish that someone would actually say, but I am recounting in neo-nascent Spanish so you will have to bear with me). I responded that I would like to go to mass with her ‘eventualmente, pero’ in the coming weeks instead of tonight, if that “está bien?” “Estes segura?” And she confirms, “Estoy segura. No tengan pena” (Don’t worry). 

I want to tell Rosa Maria about my precious Nana, and I know that I will because I brought photos to show her. 

Somewhere between unfolding my travel sheets, inflating my camping mattress (I’m gonna try it on top of the actual mattress since I went to the trouble to bring it!) and putting on my Namastay in Bed fleece, Nana and her pink thumbnail christened the start of my next chapter. 

Nana, I hope I make you proud. There are a lot of crucifixes in this house and pictures of Jesus and Mary. You would want me to be here, I think. I think you would be glad. 

I knew that I would get homesick here. I didn’t realize that the first home I would miss is Nana. She was a mighty fortress, a warm embrace and a “How are you behbeh?” No matter where I was or what I was doing, she was my special hideaway.

I am homesick for Nana, to whom I cannot return.

And sometimes, that is just how it goes.

I’m going to touch-up my nails.