Titi

Ashley Venus Vaello

photos: Ashley Venus Vaello

Time heals everything, at least that’s what they say, but that’s a lie. Time doesn’t heal anything. Time just allows you the benefit of learning how to pretend you’re okay.

I’m not okay. I miss my Titi. She died in November of 1999. I’m writing this in October of 2020. My memories of her and with her are starting to fade. I hate myself for letting my brain fog over the ten years we had together. Ten years. That’s it. I am approaching 31. I have now lived longer without her than with her.

I make lists throughout the day of things I remember. She had red hair, her hands were a little rough and unpolished, her voice was slightly raspy and she had a big burn on one of her arms. I do not remember which arm or how the burn came to be. She had a keychain filled with California Raisin charms. I don’t know what happened to her keys or if anyone still has them. I don’t even know if she actually liked raisins or why she collected those charms. I do remember how she would ask me to fill up a large soda cup from Burger King with ice cubes because she loved to chew them. I remember the permanent stain on the carpet by the bed from the ice-cup that she would inevitably drop when nodding out. I always thought she was just sleepy.

I now know what heroin does to you.

We took weekly walks from our quiet neighborhood in Sunnyside to Queens Plaza. We’d sing songs, she would tell me funny stories about my mom growing up, she would tell me all about the book she was reading. I loved these walks and going to the doctor with her. They had a water fountain filled with orange soda that I took full advantage of while she was being seen.

I now know this was a methadone clinic.

How do you grieve and grapple with the memory of what you thought a person was versus who they really were? Can both be true?

It was Titi's responsibility to pick me and my cousins up from school. Sometimes she wouldn’t show up. Sometimes the nodding out won and a deep sleep took over. Sometimes her drug run to Brooklyn took longer than expected and she couldn’t make it in time for school dismissal. She would send her eldest son in her place to come pick us up. Sometimes he wouldn’t come, either.

I often accompanied her on those Brooklyn trips. Titi told me never to tell my mom. These trips were secret. And the secret made me feel special, like I was important.

A secret. Our little secret.

Titi was fun. She made me laugh and appreciated who I was. I was always made to feel like I was too much. That I needed to shrink myself. With Titi I could laugh harder, scream louder, run faster.

She was the one who dressed up as Santa Claus on Christmas. She handed out presents with a wink and dirty joke. She took me to Coney Island and forced me onto roller coasters that my mother’s fear and anxiety would never allow me to ride. I remember her throaty laughter as she threw her head back, auburn ringlets flying in the wind, as I muffled my screams into her arm.

Ashley Venus Vaello is a native New Yorker, writer, photographer, and filmmaker. She is the writer and producer of the short film, The Woman Who Wasn't There, which is now streaming on Amazon Prime. She lives in The Bronx, New York and is a devoted mom to two dogs, Luna and Rebel. @ItsVenus89