My great-grandmother, Hilda, died last night. My mother would often share memories of her Abuelita Hilda, telling me about the time they lived under one roof in Quito, how Abuelita Hilda helped raise my mother and her siblings after their father died.
When I saw Hilda this past August, during our trip to Ecuador, she was no longer able to recognise any of us. But I remember her before that, a little. My memories of her are limited, but I remember her always cooking up something delicious in the kitchen. I remember our family dog adored her, and gained five pounds when she came to visit, because she insisted on feeding it every little scrap as she prepared meals. I remember her wicked, and often dirty, sense of humour. During one trip to visit us in Seattle from Ecuador, Abuelita Hilda brought my aunt a pair of lacy underwear with a goat embroidered on the front of the crotch, elbowing her cheekily and winking as she gave it to her.
She was good, she was tender, she gave everything to her family that she had to give. She faced infidelities with grace. She held herself with the solemn dignity of her ancient people. She was the matriarch of the Guerrero family—and it is no small thing to be able to call yourself “mother of the warriors”.
I don't have any pictures of her, I cannot attend her funeral, nor can I comfort my mother and grandmother as they grieve. Instead, I hope I can honour her memory in the only way I can think of: by celebrating her culture, her country, and her city--Quito--through these photos I took during a trip there this past August.
