Her name should have been Francie ( my mamas name ) . I made a huge mistake and gave my only daughter the wrong name . I don’t want my memory to fail me now , not now , not when my middle sister Juliet is so terribly broken with grief , afraid of everything that could be . Death always scared her , words like ” heaven ” do too . There are three of us , three daughters first and then my brothers . My mother knew how I expected her to one day live with me . She understood the culture of South America especially after seeing the movie , ” Like Water for Chocolate ” and becoming aware of the Spanish tradition dictating the youngest daughter care for her mother in old age . Her favorite scene was when the youngest sisters heat and passion transfers to her older sister , who overcome with lust , takes a shower outside only to be carried off naked by a revolutionary soldier on horseback . My older sisters were tough competition and we fought for how long she would stay with each of us and just how many movies she could watch . But I’m the smart one ( buying her a one way ticket so she would stay longer ) yes , me the so called smart sister despite the fact that I took ayahuasca in the deep forest with the shaman along a strange river in Columbia where Gabriel Garcia Marquez lived ( my mamas favorite writer ) . I told her that story again and again , embellishing it more and more whenever she asked , which was often . I earned a masters degree in neuroscience , with a career in the research department of a university and my mama always delighted that by looking at me , one would never know these puzzling facts . So how did I make that mistake with my daughters name ? I forgot the visions in forgetting the romance of my mothers life . I forgot that her brain heard whispers from her soul and that the imprint of her cell was the same as mine . ” Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again , though lovers be lost love shall not , and death shall have no dominion ” ( Dylan Thomas ). I won’t forget again , not now , not with the black eyes of my daughter looking at me with my mothers emotion , eyes , the artifacts of her grandmothers mystery .
For my youngest daughter
