My mother

My mother, me and my father

For those that knew her, they loved her. For those that she raised, you knew she could be brutally honest, and you loved her.

Clemencia Martinez was born on August 24, 1940 in Mexico. She moved with her family to the United States and settled in Northern California.

According to my father – when I asked him for a paper I was writing in high school – they met on a field near the house they raised my family. They ran off to the Nevada Stateline to get married on November 4, 1960. They married again, this time inside the Catholic Church, on January 28, 1961. They would have their first child seven months later.

On April 3, 2009, my family lost our matriarch.

My relationship with my parents is different from the rest of my family in my opinion. I was the youngest for starters. I was a male. And the difference in age between me and my next sibling was quite substantial meaning she didn’t have a bunch of children around the same age.

The stories I hear about growing up are far different than mine. My older sisters used to tell “The Pancake Story” when talking about how my mom raised them. I do know how painfully honest she could be, especially upset.

My mother always made a good impression. For those that met her, they would always enjoy talking with her, despite not speaking English well. My mother could communicate enough to be understood.

She died with family in Mexico. My parents were going around seeing family. From what has been told to me, this day, my mother hadn’t been feeling well, which may have been a continuing thing. For those that don’t know, my mother suffered from diabetes. It’s too early to tell what the cause of death is. She was complaining of chest pains and told my father, “I’m not going to make it.” She went to lie down and passed away before medical help could arrive.

I look back at the last time I talked to her. It was a few weeks back while she was in Mexico. We were able to communicate through the Internet. She asked me the same things she always asked: How I was doing? How the weather is? How work was? Usually when I talked to her she would give me a prayer saying “May God help and take care of you.”

I was at the movies, watching “I Love You, Man” when I got the call from one of my sisters. My phone was on silent but I heard the vibration of the voice mail. She called again and at that point I knew something was wrong. I walk out and called. I knew by the way she is talking what happened even before she said it.

Stunned and numb I walked back into the theater. I welled up, but didn’t cry. The movie was funny but at the same time I just kept going back to my thoughts. The movie, in a way, froze me at a point in time. Once the credits rolled, I began to cry. I came home and broke down.

I think about all things before and everything after that she will not be there for. At my friend’s wedding, I saw him dance with him mom and thought about my mom and how much I wanted that moment.

However, there are more important things. When I got home, my family was all online talking to each other through instant messages in a conference trying to figure out what to do next.

For the rest of the night I’ve walked around feeling hollow. No matter what you think or do, you just know something is gone.

I feel fortunate to have such a wonderful mother. As I go to sleep in a little bit, I have the second gift given to me the day I was born. It’s a stuffed toy that looks like a bear appears to be put together with just fabric and filling that I’ve kept ever since. It reminds me of her.

The first gift given to me that day is life. My mother gave me that.