The Banana Tree
I hate it when old men's voices tremble. Emotion slips in, choking the air flow and causing weakness to exist where there has always been perseverence in the face of adversity. You can hear their voices sink, sigh, then scrape against the gutter of pain until you hear tears. And that's the breaking point.
Last night my Aunt Judie died. This isn't particularly sad to me, except for the fact that I was making fun of her this very morning, but the rest of my family seems preturbed. With good reason. My aunt comes from the "dark times" when everything was a crazy, dysfunctional mess of a family coming together out of the woodwork, children running around everywhere and businesses being maintained before burning to the ground. Or at least, that's how I've heard the story. Aunt Judie used to be not beautiful but elegant-looking, although all I have seen of her in my lifetime is the lined face of a woman emaciated from cigarettes, always perched on the arm of some couch, long cigarette in hand, discussing the pros and cons of new choices in the tobacco industry. It's ironic since I get so heated when discussing tobacco, so I guess in a way we're alike; tobacco was what she did and tobacco was what made me. One time she stayed at our house, slept in my bed while I slept on the couch. My room smelled like smoke for 3 days.
So naturally, in lieu of all this, I spent an hour sitting with my family at my grandfather's house. All the talk swirling around my head about disassociated brothers and sisters of Aunt Judie, so and so is there, so and so's gone wild, his child did that and back in the day, grandfather did this. I did glean one bit of information from my grandfather: the miniature bananas in the grocery are called "manzanos" in Spanish. His grandfather had a manzano tree in the backyard, and my grandfather would pick them, said they were the best fruit he ever tasted. As much as all the talk interests me (plus makes me wish I could go back in time to see them in Cuba and Florida, even Spain), all I realized was that I love the family I have here with me now; not the crazy stories, hushed pasts, or any such thing. It's the family that has surrounded me my whole life that will be leaving soon; let's face it, I'm growing up, which means they're not getting any younger. Eventually, my brothers and I will have to be our family if any heritage or sense of community is to continue. My uncle kept joking with my parents, asking them "what are you gonna be when you grow up?" I realized then that it's no easier on my parents than it is on me. They still have lives and dreams and have to put up with us, this last generation. Perhaps one day we'll figure it out.
Last night my Aunt Judie died. This isn't particularly sad to me, except for the fact that I was making fun of her this very morning, but the rest of my family seems preturbed. With good reason. My aunt comes from the "dark times" when everything was a crazy, dysfunctional mess of a family coming together out of the woodwork, children running around everywhere and businesses being maintained before burning to the ground. Or at least, that's how I've heard the story. Aunt Judie used to be not beautiful but elegant-looking, although all I have seen of her in my lifetime is the lined face of a woman emaciated from cigarettes, always perched on the arm of some couch, long cigarette in hand, discussing the pros and cons of new choices in the tobacco industry. It's ironic since I get so heated when discussing tobacco, so I guess in a way we're alike; tobacco was what she did and tobacco was what made me. One time she stayed at our house, slept in my bed while I slept on the couch. My room smelled like smoke for 3 days.
So naturally, in lieu of all this, I spent an hour sitting with my family at my grandfather's house. All the talk swirling around my head about disassociated brothers and sisters of Aunt Judie, so and so is there, so and so's gone wild, his child did that and back in the day, grandfather did this. I did glean one bit of information from my grandfather: the miniature bananas in the grocery are called "manzanos" in Spanish. His grandfather had a manzano tree in the backyard, and my grandfather would pick them, said they were the best fruit he ever tasted. As much as all the talk interests me (plus makes me wish I could go back in time to see them in Cuba and Florida, even Spain), all I realized was that I love the family I have here with me now; not the crazy stories, hushed pasts, or any such thing. It's the family that has surrounded me my whole life that will be leaving soon; let's face it, I'm growing up, which means they're not getting any younger. Eventually, my brothers and I will have to be our family if any heritage or sense of community is to continue. My uncle kept joking with my parents, asking them "what are you gonna be when you grow up?" I realized then that it's no easier on my parents than it is on me. They still have lives and dreams and have to put up with us, this last generation. Perhaps one day we'll figure it out.