Obituary of Lydia Rosado

When Mrs. Rosado\'s Alzemeirs was progressing I used to visit her at her home. I would always say, \" Hello Mrs. Rosado do you remember me? It\'s Tini.\" And she would always respond,\"Si, long time,\" which meant we\'ve known eachother for so many years. We\'d do this exchange only once. During her final days I visited her at home, she was sleeping more often and at that point she could not speak. However, I still walked up next to where she was laying down and said, \"Hi, Mrs Rosado, do you remember me? It\'s Tini.\" And she opened her eyes to see me, them closed them just as fast. I repeated my greeting a few more times but she didn\'t open her eyes. Once was enough, just the way she used to respond. I\'ll always remember that she remembered and acknowledged me. God Bless You, Mrs. Rosado.

My memory of Mrs. Rosado a.k.a. Mami is that she was a loving mother who enjoyed and tolerated with amusement her daughters antics. Although I really didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her personally she was a beautiful woman both inside and out and now she’s a beautiful angel watching over her daughters from the kingdom of heaven. Rest In Peace

Though my memories exist few and far between, one thing I do remember about my grandmother is her love for me that stemmed directly from the love she had for her son, who I was lucky to call my father. When I lived in New York, I remember her caring for me sometimes when I was sick and her never ceasing to express how happy she was when we would come visit. My favorite memory was the way she cooked! She could turn a simple boxed soup into a delicious Spanish creation! And I can still smell the aromas of the pasteles cooking in the kitchen. The love she put into her food made it taste so much better. To this day, I have never found pasteles that even come close to way she made them. I would do anything to go back in time and see her cooking in the kitchen and to share a meal with her again. While my heart aches that she has left this earth, I find joy in knowing that she has reached her forever home in heaven. She is reunited with my dad who I am sure has welcomed her with open arms at the gate. She is now free of pain and sickness, and roaming the streets of gold, gleaming with joy and comfort in her mansion with God. My grandma will forever be cherished memory in my heart and I was lucky to be her granddaughter. With Love, Kylee

I am submitting this essay my brother Freddy wrote of my mother when he was alive. It truly captures the kind of woman that she was. Thank Mami...for everything..... The Worst Hour of My Childhood. I will never forget the worst hour of my childhood. "But mom...WHY?? Why do I have to do this?! Of course, that typical motherly response was "because, I said so." A child as my self has better things to do...or so I thought. "I don't want to read the Reader's Digest for an hour a day, everyday!", but with this general, fighting back would be futile. I WAS DOOMED! "Reading out loud for an hour a day is good for you," she would say in her unmistakable Spanish accent. "Understanding what you read will help you out in the future"...."You might even overcome your fear of speaking to people"...but most importantly, sacrificing an hour a day from your playtime will instill value in you". At nine years old I did not understand this; all I understood was playtime. Where was Victor?...My comrade in G.I. Joe adventures, How did Tito blow up his finger?...Far more important things than reading out loud. Until one year due to a family emergency, I was uprooted from my home and sent to live with my aunt in Puerto Rico. Due to these circumstances, I missed my entire fifth year of school. When I returned to the states the big concern was, "What grade will he be placed in, fifth or sixth?” Before too long, I was seated in front of Mr. White the principal of Sacred Heart of Jesus Academy. Mr. White a tall, stern disciplinarian told my mother that I must repeat the fifth grade. My mother never gave up; she insisted that I belonged in the sixth grade. "Give him a test", she would say, "he'll prove it to you". Mr. white shook his head and thought about it; as he glanced over to his desk you could almost see an idea jump in his head. On his desk stood a copy of the New York Times; you could have knocked me over with a feather when he asked me to read the headline story out loud. I read out loud, making every word count. All my sentences ended where they were suppose to, I took deep breaths in between commas and I enunciated perfectly. The article went on, something about President Richard Nixon and a scandal that I cannot remember now, but quite important back then. When I completed reading this article, a smile came over my face for I knew that I had read better than any ten year old out there. Mr. White looked quite surprised, but he was not finished yet. He went on to ask me a series of questions, in which I responded correctly and in a quick-like manner. After this interrogation was over, he grabbed me by the hand and led me down the hall to my new classroom. As I walked the doorway kept getting bigger and bigger, that's when I noticed the number on the wall...6SP, the smartest sixth grade class in the school. Over the years this ritual continued, I read out loud and she listened. At times my anger was such, that I would throw my Reader's Digest away. Sometimes I would lie to my mother and tell her the store ran out of the Reader's Digest. " No problem", she would say and pull out an old issue and forced me to read the same stories again. What I did not realize was how easy it was for me to read out loud. I no longer felt fear, I even participated in class readings and not to mention school plays. Every now and again I would think, "She does not understand a word I am saying...She can barely speak English for crying out loud!” "She should be the one reading out loud!” Such a thought would never leave the confine of my brain, "No Sir". I knew better than to speak such words out loud. I began not to miss my hour a day, I read, that's it !!!! Some people practice the piano for one hour a day, I read the Digest for an hour a day. As my maturity increased I knew that we were poor people, but yet I went to a private school. When you are a child you never think of finances, you just live. "How sweet it is". I was sacrificing one hour a day and things in school became brighter. I remember looking back and seeing my mother at recess every single day. At times this was embarrassing but nonetheless comforting. "Don't forget your snack", she would yell as she tried to kiss me while I ran away. It's funny, I use to think my mother's sacrifice was to bring me snacks and in return I would read out loud for one long ghastly hour. How simplistic that assumption was for my mother's sacrifice was far deeper than that. I can pass by a Reader's Digest today and CRINGE! "My hour .... my many hours, devoted to reading this book". What do I have? Well, I am attending college after many years of not doing so. I speak out loud to hundreds of people a day as I manage a multi-million dollar business, but more importantly I find myself sacrificing for my own daughter. I do things for her to make her life better. I try to give her the best I can provide just as my mother did for me. As poor and as uneducated as my mother is, she understood the value of an education. She realized the importance of speaking in public, and the sacrifices it would take to get there. It wasn't until I was older that I understood my mother's true sacrifice. How, in exchange for my education she labored many hours in the school's laundry room. Ironing and washing all day long, and still managing to raise a family. One hour a day is not much when you are improving yourself. If I only knew this lesson back then. Often times I wonder where did her wisdom come from. How can a woman with no education be this wise? I think I know where it comes from; it comes from a place that very few people know about. It came from her heart. By: Luis A. Rosado English 101 Prof. Berlin