Con Mucho Cariño

Seeing death so close was such a disorienting experience.

I’m standing in front of my Abuelito and I am pinching the inside of my arm, making little red marks because I’m trying to feel something. I want to blow out all the candles so it will stop, so this moment can disappear.

I’m still and in memory–surrounded by the same blood but different levels of sorrow.

I keep saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry- over and over again like a recording in my head. My apology sounds as if I'm underwater. Deep in ocean ice.

Even when he’s laying down and I’m standing, seeing his body, sucked and blue– I think; that’s not him. That’s someone else. This skin-tight and ashen color-waxed figure with a skeletal face is not anyone I know.

But even in a trance, with my watery coal eyes, I’ll always find love.

Stardust is windchill and for a brief moment, I see.

I see that it’s still him.

I see the light as Tio Efrain leaves a can of Modelo on the casket.

The sun goes down as Tio Beto sings Abuletio’s last song.

I feel the love as I lock arms with my mom. Hand in hand, heartbeat by heartbeat.

I sense Abuelito's spirit as I clench my chest seeing his horses whimpering like wounded dogs.

Anyone who cares about you has to realize that you need a little looking after.

So I’ll be there.

I’ll stand in love like Tia Martha kneels to the cross.

I’ll breathe with care as Tia Patty holds a heavy heart.

I’ll hold a hand like Mariela holds her son.

I learn with age and with ease, that loss doesn’t always have to be lonely. Because even with ache–we’re still in orbit.

Life has been about reaching an ending except when it’s ending.

All I want is the beginning.

But this– this is Abuelito's beginning.

No more, no more, no more, no more.

The love of my family tends to always creep in, and catch me.

By the time I walk back into his gates, I’m convinced that the world still exists.

I am better than I was and I chose to be here. 

Love is real and I had some for dessert. 

I’m sitting in the sun with my cousins and things don’t feel as bad. 

Is this life?  Do I hold it with both hands? Do I try to live? 

I’m sitting on the bed reading.

It’s early February and the window is open. The roosters are singing. The crickets are loud but very soothing.

Abuelito’s room smells disty and warm and no one else exists. The feeling never goes away.

Everything is quiet and there’s peace.