How we cite our quotes: (Paragraph)
Quote #1
But this was a different kind of help, Amá said, because Abuelita was dying. (6)
The narrator is used to helping her grandmother in her garden, but this time she has to help her at her deathbed. The contrast is pretty striking. In the garden the two are concerned with life—growing, planting, producing food—but now they are concerned with death. But Abuelita trusts the narrator because she has cared for her plants; now she can care for her, too.
Quote #2
Looking into her gray eye, then into her brown one, the doctor said it was just a matter of days. (6)
Abuelita dies of stomach cancer, but the doctor is able to tell that her life force is running out by looking into her eyes. In this moment it's like the gray eye is closer to death (one eye in the grave?) and the brown eye is closer to life. For more on this, get thee to the "Symbols" section pronto.
Quote #3
There comes a time when the sun is defiant. Just about the time when moods change, [. . .] there comes an illumination where the sun and earth meet, a final burst of burning red orange fury reminding us that although endings are inevitable, they are necessary for rebirths, and when that time came, just when I switched on the light in the kitchen to open Abuelita's can of soup, it was probably then that she died. (13)
The narrator relates the sunset, part of the natural world, with her grandmother's life. The sun goes down every night, but it comes up every morning, reminding us humans that endings come before beginnings. This metaphor allows the narrator to think of her grandmother's death as a new beginning, a rebirth.
Quote #4
The room smelled of Pine Sol and vomit and Abuelita had defecated the remains of her cancerous stomach. (14)
Well, this story goes from a beautiful sunset of rebirth to realness in no time flat. The strong scent imagery acknowledges the dirty, physical process of death. It ain't all sunshine and beauty.
Quote #5
She had turned to the window and tried to speak, but her mouth remained open and speechless. I heard you, Abuelita, I said, stroking her cheek, I heard you. (14)
Abuelita dies with her eyes open, trying to speak. She was alone in the moment of her death, though, so who was she talking to? The narrator tries to comfort her after the fact, as you might comfort a scared child—but she didn't actually hear her grandmother. Does this mean that death is really lonely, that no one hears us? Maybe so.
Quote #6
With the sacredness of a priest preparing his vestments, I unfolded the towels one by one on my shoulders. (14)
The narrator hates going to mass, but when it's time to prepare her grandmother's body she slips into religion mode without any problem. Humans almost always deal with death through ritual. It helps us know what to do in the face of the unknown.
Quote #7
She was not as heavy as I thought and when I carried her in my arms, her body fell into a V, and yet my legs were tired, shaky, and I felt as if the distance between the bedroom and bathroom was miles and years away. (15)
Carrying her grandmother's dead body to the bathroom is the final step in the narrator's ritual. The distance between the bed and the bathroom though isn't just measured in spatial distance, though; it's also temporal. By dealing with her grandmother's death, the narrator gains years of experience. Death makes her grow up.
Quote #8
I bent my knees slowly to descend into the water slowly so I wouldn't scald her skin. (16)
Even though her grandmother is dead, the narrator acts as though her body can still feel. She is careful not to burn her grandmother, as though lowering a baby into a warm bath. It's like the full weight of her grandmother's death hasn't yet registered.
Quote #9
Then the moths came. Small, gray ones that came from her soul and out through her mouth fluttering to light, circling the single dull light bulb of the bathroom. (16)
Even though Abuelita is dead, there is a part of her that continues to live. The moths have been living in her soul with her throughout her life, and now that she's gone they come out into the world; they find new light. The narrator can see them, just like she can feel her grandmother's presence. For more on this little creatures, hop over to the "Symbols" section—they're kind of a big deal.
Quote #10
Dying is lonely and I wanted to go to where the moths were, stay with her and plant chayotes whose vines would crawl up her fingers and into the clouds; I wanted to rest my head on her chest with her stroking my hair, telling me about the moths that lay within the soul and slowly eat the spirit up; I wanted to return to the waters of the womb with her so that we would never be alone again. (16)
The narrator says that dying is lonely, which is kind of weird because she's not the one who has actually died here. That would be her grandmother. Metaphorically, though, Abuelita's death ushers in the death of the narrator's childhood—so the narrator does experience her own death of sorts, too. And in both cases, she feels intensely lonely.