Selections from My Amazonian Reviews: Thoughts on Life's Real and Imagined Possessions

Stepping Out from the Past

In the spirit of reviewing my possessions, I offer this reflection on a family prayer book passed down from my grandmother, Margarita.

Who Was Margarita?

I never truly knew you, Margarita. I was only twelve the last time I saw you. Now, at sixty-five, I often reflect on your existence. In this still house in the country, where I am frequently alone, I ponder why I did not come to know you better. Retirement transforms one into a melancholic thinker.

As a young and foolish child, I felt out of place. I was the strange boy—moody, withdrawn, angry, and quirky. These traits offered little room for your love. You were the 'other' grandmother, my father’s mother. Unlike Lotita, my mother’s mother, who came to visit every Saturday with pastries, stories, and a vivid imagination, you remained quiet and distant. Lotita fed my yearning for escape.

You lived in el centro—the heart of Buenos Aires. I struggle to remember if we ever truly talked. Did I ever hear you converse with others? You always appeared reserved. Yet, I vividly recall your smile—soft, peaceful, and mysterious. It hinted at torrents of joyful thoughts and tenderness you felt but never shared. My father bore a similar smile when he was in the sanatorium.

How I Received the Prayer Book

It was not gift-wrapped. Instead, it arrived wrapped in my mother’s disappointment.

When she turned sixty-five and prepared to move to Pennsylvania for retirement, Mother distributed a trunk full of trinkets inherited from Father’s family. These included willow-pattern teacups, drawings, photos, Bibles, and various prayer books. My oldest sister received the exquisite Family Bible, adorned with gold leaves and containing everyone’s birth, baptism, and death records. The rest of us received less precious items, dictated by my mother’s mood and whims.

As I was not my mother’s favorite, it seemed unlikely I would receive any valuable items. Ultimately, I ended up with a Book of Common Prayer, marked with your name: Margarita Smith de Beckford. The name was penned in pencil—elegant yet unmistakable—by my mother, along with two dates: your birth and death. Your life distilled to mere numbers.

Condition Summary: The Prayer Book

I thanked my mother for giving me your 1800s Church of England prayer book. It had a handsome leather cover but remained unopened for years. I felt miffed for not receiving one of the prettier Bibles. Your prayer book sat in a velvet box where I stored sentimental belongings. Although I rarely opened that box, I often discovered forgotten treasures.

Recently, while rummaging through it, I found your prayer book. Upon opening it this time, I noted its minimal wear—perhaps a moderate emotional residue. A bookmark lay set on the Daily Morning Prayer page, worn, creased, and softened by time. It must have been your favorite.

Toward the back, an unexpected discovery awaited me: a chart titled "List of Forbidden Marriages." It listed partnerships that Christians cannot enter into—fathers and daughters, sons and sisters, grandfathers and descendants, uncles, nephews, etc. Curiously enough, there was no prohibition against cousins. That is what you did—you married your first cousin.

Marrying close relatives was common at that time, serving as a way to keep land in the family. Your family once owned estancias near Buenos Aires—expanses of pasture and livestock passed down through generations. However, by the 1920s, even those lands had been lost. That was when the city claimed you completely. I picture you, Margarita, traversing the cracked Buenos Aires sidewalks, a young woman in black lace gloves, holding your prayer book as if it were a compass.

Despite leaving the pampas for the city, one family member, Auntie Kittie, retained a smaller ranch 35 kilometers from the city center. My father spent his summers there. He shared stories of long horse rides, returning at sunset with a sunburnt neck and pale stripes from the reins. All of you left the lands and transitioned into urban life, aside from Auntie Kittie.

Now, holding your prayer book, I notice only a few pages show signs of use. However, the leather cover bears the imprint of your hands. I imagine you gripping it tightly—not in piety, but in contemplation—eyes closed, thinking. You were pondering where life was leading you and how the family would survive without the wealth of the land. What parts of you would carry on through your children?

Lately, I’ve been considering what my children will remember about me.

What the Prayer Book Evokes

Unexpectedly, this dusty old book stirred profound emotions. It reminded me of you, Margarita, but also of Mother.

In the years before her passing, I began calling her once a week. We had our differences, and as adults, there was distance between us. Only after having children did I understand her struggles and the challenges of parenting. My spouse, who shared a close bond with their own mother, encouraged me to reach out more frequently. Weekly calls quickly became daily conversations, sometimes multiple times a day.

In her final days, Mother lived alone, just a few blocks from the nursing home where Father resided—slowly losing his battle with Alzheimer’s, much like you, Margarita. I occasionally drove her for visits. It was as bleak as any story you might’ve read. Fortunately, they treated him well. I didn’t carry your prayer book to the nursing home, but I held it in my mind—like a soft echo of your endurance.

Father recognized only a few people—Mother, of course. He saw something familiar in me, though my name never surfaced. If I asked, “Do you know who I am?” he would smile, happy to see me, yet his eyes drifted, blank with effort. He had gone far away. But like you, Margarita, he never lost his smile. I would ask, “How are you?” and he would beam, saying, “Wonderful!” Then he pointed at the clouds, exclaiming, “Look at that cloud—that’s Auntie Kittie’s place. I can see her riding a horse.”

Such visits always left me feeling hollow. I seldom spoke during the drive back, but Mother could see the impact on my face—how witnessing someone I loved vanish in slow motion affected me.

“Don’t worry,” she said once. “We are all alone. We’re born alone, we die alone, and in between, we live inside our own minds. At best, we survive as a faint impression in the memory of others. Yet, even that impression remains incomplete. No one can truly share themselves.”

Now, I endeavor to reimagine you, Margarita. That smile. Those inward thoughts. You were not absent; instead, you were reserved—someone who shaped the silences I find increasingly magnetic. I’ve come to believe that the items we cherish—books, memories, and silence—slowly mold us, just as fingers wear down a leather cover or pencil fades from an inscription penned long ago.

Perhaps that was your endeavor too, Margarita—attempting to hold something steady while time rearranged everything else. Maybe it’s not too late to see those small inheritances—not just the unspoken words but also the gifts that were offered.

Rating: Three stars. The product held more than it revealed.

Ernesto Beckford

June 25, 2025

© Ernesto Beckford 2025

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