By Abe Villarreal
When Nana Rafaela was still living, she would be the one to say the prayer before Thanksgiving Dinner, and Christmas Eve dinner, and any other time there was enough family to gather around for a special occasion.
We always looked to her because she was the matriarch of the family. The oldest person in the room is expected to do the prayer and other ceremonial acts of togetherness. When it was time to eat, everyone would gather in a big circle, holding hands, head bowed, and she would begin.
Her prayers were long. She almost always cried. Her heart was full, and it sounded a little broken. When you're grandma's age, you've seen a lot. You've said a lot of prayers. You know what and who needs prayer and you know why prayers are important.
We would wait. Eyes closed. Stomachs empty. She prayed for all of us. One by one. Our names said out loud. Each one of us was worth a prayer. What a wonderful thing to know. I was just one person, one of many grandchildren, but I was worth a prayer.
Nana Rafaela has been gone for 10 years, but we all remember her prayers. She died on December 18, 2014, and this time of year is when she comes to mind. Her hugs, her laughter. Her affection and kisses. The kind that would leave her lipstick smeared on your face.
Her distinctive voice. Shaky and warm. Soft and rugged. Something happens to grandmas that makes them all things at once when they reach the end of their lives. They are comforting and rough around the edges. They are to be respected but also feel like a best friend. There's a certain unexplainable aura about them.
Prayers have been different since Nana Rafaela passed away. We say them but they don't sound the same. They are shorter, less meaningful. We pray for everyone, but not for each person. There are no tears. There's no one there to make us hang on to a prayer a little longer than we all wanted.
This holiday season, I'd give anything to hear a Nana Rafaela prayer. During the last three years of her life, she lost her recognition of who we were, her family, the people for which she prayed for every Thanksgiving dinner.
That was tough for me. She would see us, but she wouldn't say anything. No more kisses or hugs. No more sharing of stories. No advice. No more mijos and mijas. She was just there. I have to believe that inside her mind and her heart, she continued to pray for everyone around her.
It's what she had always done. Somethings you never lose. Because of her memory and the impact she made on us, I don't think I've lost her yet.
She's in my prayers.
Abe Villarreal writes about the people, culture, and traditions of America. He can be reached at
