Photo’s On The Wall

There is a photo in my grandparents' room of them on their wedding day. Young and striking, I was awed by the strong figures I had grown up with, pictured, in their youth. I asked the story of their meeting.

Nidia. 

Nidia’s hands trembled as she reached down for the blush. Her makeup routine was always simple, receiving a few tweaks from the one she inherited from her mother when she was just a girl in Nicaragua.

—--------------

 Her mother had always told her, “It’s important to put on your best face to the world.” As a cancer survivor and single mother of four daughters in the 1930s, she learned this trade’s importance.

Nidia was the youngest of the four girls. As the last to exit her mother’s womb, she found it hard to detach herself from her mother’s hip, afraid to let go. So, her earliest days were spent studying her mother’s routines. Nidia would watch her apply makeup closely, taking note of her delicate application of a matte maroon lip. Blush delicately on the highs of her cheekbones. Powder with the fluffiest cotton pad she had ever seen and a light mascara “because everything comes down to your eyes.” 

Her mother would turn from the mirror, her now rosy cheeks lifted in a comforting smile, and from that very young age, Nidia knew who she wanted to be when she grew up. 

When she turned 10, taller than all her sisters, Nidia was already too beautiful for her demeanour. Her sisters protested when her mother gifted her with her blush, much younger than they had been allowed makeup. 

“She’ll lose it!” 

“Or break it.” 

“Her face is already red enough all the time!” 

Nidia, usually quick to cry at her sister’s most innocent jabs, tuned them out, eyes ablaze in admiration at the first of anything she had ever owned—a gift from her mother. 

She put on too much initially. Her sisters called her a clown, and seeing they had a point, she ran upstairs as tears cast streaks down her rose-splattered cheeks. 

Her mother came upstairs, found her a mess in the corner, and brushed her hair behind her ears like always. Wiping her canvas clean, she showed Nidia how to apply it softly. She guided her to the mirror, hands upon her shoulders, crouching beside her as Nidia gazed upon her mother’s artistry. 

“Bonita,” Mother whispered. 

Smiling, looking at her image next to her mother, Nidia’s mother returned the expression with a hint of bittersweetness, “Your sisters are silly and jealous; don’t let them get to you.” 

So Nidia continued to wear her blush and act younger than her age, chasing butterflies through the grass and tracking mud into the house. She ripped her most excellent dresses, played with the boys in the streets, and rudely placed her elbows upon the dinner table despite continual protestations. 

At age 15, enough time had passed that her eldest sister, Mirna, needed to talk with her. “You can’t keep acting like this, Nidia. You will be a woman soon,” she scolded, patching her knee from another scrape. 

“I know I can’t wait.” Nidia smiled, unaware of what the world did to women. 

Her sister asked, shaking her head. “A woman cannot play soccer with the Chamorro brothers and track mud into the house.” 

-“They can’t rip their prettiest dresses either.”

Her sister Vilma expressed from the corner she was holed in, not looking up from her book. 

Nidia, agitated, started: “Mama says -”

-“Mama favours you because you’re sensitive; when will you learn.” Mirna firmly proclaimed. 

“I’m not sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive,” Vilma mocked from the corner, smirking.

With tears already welling in her eyes, Nidia angrily turned her face to the ground, not wanting to let them escape and prove her sister right.

Mirna saw and, as a natural older sister, felt sad for her youngest.

“Mira, let me fix your hair.” 

Nidia had long, dark brown locks as wild as her spirit. Due to neglect, her natural coils tangled her hair almost every night, so she woke to look like a “lion,” as her sisters at the breakfast table would often proclaim. 

Nidia barely cared, though. She merely bunched it up into a long braid—a style long servicing her—before skipping into the outside world, where the ladybugs would play with her and not care for the state of her hair. 

“My hair is fine!” protested Nidia, defensively grasping at her braid by her shoulder. 

“You would have to cut that mess off to get it to behave!” said Vilma. 

Mirna softly removed Nidia’s firm grip from the braid and gently began undoing the tangles so the curls fell down her chest. Mirna thought it was beautiful hair, a little frustrated that the least deserving of such natural curls was the most careless. She had to put her hair into rollers every night. 

Still, a maternal pang begged her to recover the mess- she knew her spirited younger sister was beautiful inside and out. Still, her disposition would never suit her, especially regarding the detailed maintenance required by such expressive hair in this grown-out state. 

“A haircut is not a bad idea,” Mirna suggested, attempting to wrangle the curls through her wooden comb. 

Wincing from the pain of the process- Nidia shrieked, “No!”

But she thought of her mother—her short hairstyle —and, remembering the sight of her alongside her mother, warmed up to the suggestion. 

Mirna grew excited at the makeover. She was in charge of cutting her hair and her sisters, but Nidia was usually so impatient, always conveniently absent when Mirna wrangled the sisters for their bi-monthly haircuts. To have such a hopeless subject in her mercy would be a challenge- one she warmed up to. 

So, the project began. Mirna, quite the soldier- retained an admirable diligence in the ensuing process- which could be comparable to the taming of a wild beast. She washed Nidia’s hair- wasting a bottle of her favourite conditioner. To her horror, learning Nidia had usually skipped this second product- thinking it did nothing. 

Nidia retained an honourable level of poise, to the shock of her sister. While every instinct complained to get up and go back outside, that the water was too cold, the discomfort was too great; she silently contained herself in place. Partially, she wanted to prove Vilma wrong- that she was well-behaved. But frankly, she was excited to be doted on and made pretty.

When the scissors came out, it grew more challenging for her to maintain her disposition. She was not vain, or so she had often thought- but as her moist locks fell to the ground in a mass of discarded clumps- her eyes welled- as if her sister were cutting off pieces of her flesh. “Tranquila,” cooed Mirna, and Nidia sucked in her tears - trusting of the process. 

The job took an entire day, and both sisters were exhausted. Looking up at her sister’s focused gel application and final touches of hairspray, Nidia saw a smile on her sister’s face. Mirna, transfixed in her task- finally took in the image before her. She felt a pang of pride taking in the beautiful girl- almost a woman she had just built before her. It mixed with a melancholy recognition that her youngest, reckless sister- was now aged. 

When Nidia turned to the mirror- unable to withhold her impatience any longer- she froze. The image before her was breathtaking. She recognized it, for it was the picture of her mother which hung in the living room- the one where she stood next to her father on their wedding day- the father she had never met. It took a second to recognize that it was not her mother miraculously aged down gazing back at her, but herself. Her dark brown hair was now cropped in a neat bob above her chin, curled, not coiled. 

“Now, when you play, your hair won’t get so tangled,” said Mirna, smiling. 

Yet for the first time- Nidia did not want to play- she saw a woman before her and knew women went dancing. 

Nidia then wore her prettiest (least mangled) dress- skipping down to the dining room where her family would be sitting for dinner. Confidence trumped all nerves as they looked up in awe. Even Vilma smiled at her little sister. 

But it was her mother who Nidia wanted to see the reaction of most. In meeting her ever-embracing gaze- she saw pride fulfill them. Nidita, her youngest, had never met her father yet seemed to be made up of all of his wildness, and she had held her close through the years in a way to hold on to him. But now she was mature. 

It meant her job was done; her girls, all grown up, would soon leave the house in marriage- to have their little girls. 

“I think you are old enough to go with your sisters to the dance.” 

Her mother’s words gently implied that it was time for Nidia to give up all her playing. 

—------------------------

In a week, a dance was to occur. The usual party following the Saturday evening mass was the week’s highlight for the sisters, who were all made with the spirit of song flowing through their parents. They sang- and danced- they stayed the whole night through, and everyone knew of the Sandina sisters, hoping to get a chance to have just one dance with them.

Nidia- who usually went home with her mother, was to make her first appearance. She was excited, typically envious of the stories told the following day at breakfast, feigning disinterest to suppress her jealous tears. But she was nervous. She practiced dancing the whole week ahead- saying no to her soccer compatriots because she was now mature and had no time for the foolish activities she once partook in. 

Unfortunately, even the little 2-inch heels her mother picked out for her felt too tall to move in. She wound up with as much scraped upon her knees as she did when playing soccer- and she was at least good at this- she could not get under wraps. There were so many rules to remember- following the footwork. Music moved Nidia, and she was used to being free in her movements, following only the rhythm that would whisper to her heart. 

Oh- but that just would not do, her sisters exclaimed- no, that was not the dancing to be done in public. She was confused about why she was told not to sing along or be proper. 

So when the evening approached- she fretted tirelessly in front of the mirror. As it drew closer, and her makeup and gown were fitted in place, she had to be fervent in repressing the tears that threatened to ruin her makeup. 

During the service, Nidia, who usually sang, was quietly transfixed while retracing all the rules. Don’t touch your hair, even though it’s itchy- the hairspray will break. Don’t step on your partner’s toes. Gracefully accept and follow your partner to the dance floor when asked to dance. Oh, to be back outside- where she played freely seemed right in the world. 

The clumsy and unrestrained Nidia was suspiciously silent as she followed her sisters as they approached the hall for the dance. The hum from the music inside composed the fast-paced beating of her heart, the only reason she did not resolve to cast away the painful shoes and run into the wild, never to return. 

The room was more extravagant than she could have imagined. Complete with the people she knew from around town- all made so pretty, shining under the warm evening light that trickled through the giant windows. The hardwood floor was decorated with fast-moving feet- the band was terrific. Lost in the clouds again- she shook herself back down to reality, where her anxiety returned in the realization her sisters were all miraculously gone- and so, she was alone. 

So, Nidia watched. 

She found a quiet spot along the sidelines- where she could safely observe. 

She was pretty content here, safe from the possibility of that dreaded routine that her sisters assured was “proper dancing.” She could witness her sisters in their full glory, laughing, dancing, about the room. 

But her eyes kept wandering to a figure whom she did not know. His neatly slicked hair- sharp cheekbones and stiff brow. He stood amongst the respected government people and moved with preciseness and certainty. He failed to smile alongside his friends- and kept his back similarly planted upon an opposing wall to hers. 

To her horror- her stares at once met his. Eyes locked in eyes- and his sober face flushed little red. While her heart raced in a way she had never experienced- she looked to the safety of the ground beneath her- calming her breathing once more. 

To Nidia’s surprise, she looked up to find that the serious man was now in front of her, with a hint of a smile threatening to overcome his face- and his proximity- his smell of cologne- painted her face to the bright red of that first time she put on blush and was told she looked like a clown. 

“Hello, miss” 

He said confidently, but Nidia failed to speak. 

“What is your name?” he continued. 

Realizing an answer was expected, she squeaked out “Nidia” and, after a second, replied warmly, “What is your’s?” proud to have completed the interaction as how her sisters would approve. 

To her dismay, the conversation continued. “I am Armando Urroz.” Then, extending his hand to the shy, beautiful girl across from him.

“Would you care to dance?”

Unfortunately, at the same time, Nidia became incredibly aware of the gathering saliva pooling in her mouth. Her throat began to tighten, and she could not figure out how to loosen it to allow her to breathe. Her palms were also quite sweaty, and she feared meeting his hand and having this man recoil in the horror of her damp grasp. 

In all this confusion, she saw his hand remained extended- and his silence must have meant- he was awaiting an answer. 

Now, truthfully, Nidia would love to say yes. 

Something was intriguing about this orderly individual- who appeared her polar opposite. It must have been something in his dark eyes or his delicate way of speaking- maybe it was his jawline as it clenched in anticipation. Anyways,

He was handsome. 

So, in realizing all of this, Nidia replied: 

“I can’t” 

Armando, or so he was called- looked for a moment, saddened. His hand fell back to his side, and he cleared his throat as he regained his voice. 

“You can’t?” he asked.

“No, I can’t,” she doubled down, making time for an excuse to formulate in her mind. 

“Why can’t you?” he pushed, normally quite respectful- he felt motivated by her eyes, which seemed to say yes- her smile, despite the decline. 

“I am becoming a nun,” Nidia stated, finding her excuse. 

“but you are not a nun now?” 

Nidia was growing redder by the second; she had declined for fear of him. For the thought he would realize her dancing needed to be more adequate. Yet, why is it he remained now, questioning her- so against usual propriety? 

“I have taken the oath” 

And then a sad,

“Ah” 

And so he nodded his head, and with a reply of “it is a shame to lose such beautiful hair behind a veil,” he smiled, turning away. 

Left in the dust of the interaction, Nidia felt anything but relief. His walking away tugged at her building guilt- and she felt a strange impulse to run after him, proclaiming, “wait!!! No!!” 

But oh well, it would be too late. 

So she went back to the corner- tried focusing on the music- and swayed her head side to side- mumbling the lyrics to fall back into the dream she usually resided in. 

Armando- back amongst friends- fell into a similar state of unconsciousness. He was astute, proper, profound- but- he could not seem to think of anything other than the girl who denied him in the corner. She was soft in her disposition but carried a flame of passion in her eyes- a life he had not seen around himself since he was a boy. One light, he thought he extinguished in himself. 

And so he returned to her, an act of boldness he could barely believe himself possible of. This time, he was not ready to accept a no- a desire which increased after witnessing the girl dancing in place and humming to herself with her eyes squeezed tightly. 

“Excuse me - Nidia?” 

Her eyes opened, widening at his return, he asserted,  “I’m sorry, but if you are becoming a nun- I will vow to become a priest,”

She froze, possessed by the integrity of his words. But she could not restrain the smile which overtook her face before thought.

“Anything so long as you agree to one dance.” 

—------------------------------------

Nidia’s hands now shake when she applies makeup.

She barely remembers how her mother looked- the gown she wore that night of the dance so many years ago. In between, she got married- survived a civil war, and raised her six kids in Canada- alongside the severe man who she denied so many years ago. 

His soberness melted through the years under her soft touch- he now smiled at her from the bed - with a look of love, although not the same as from first sight- but of a life spent together.

Her hair was still cropped, she wore her blush in the same way- and she carried her mother in all of it- passing love to her children, which they would have once she was gone.