with all my affection
So my grandfather had a stroke last week. He sustained paralysis on the entire left side of his body, and I honestly don't understand any of the medical jargon on this, but since the damage occurred to the right side of his brain, he has a hard time speaking. I can only imagine what my mom is going through. This is a scary fact of life when you're an adult. There will come a time when I too must accept my own parents' slow deterioration.
I ADORED BOTH of my grandfathers, but I've always been closest to the old Montelibano mestizo. If there was such thing as the natural favorite, you bet it'd be me. I'm his baby's baby, after all, and for a long time, I was also the youngest within the brood of grandchildren. When I turned three, my parents traveled abroad, and I lived in my grandfather's house. He did everything for me: he dressed me in the mornings, fed me, brushed my hair, drove me to Montessori school in his shiny town car, held my chubby hand across busy market streets.
I'd just turned fifteen the last time I went to visit him. No longer a baby, and still he spoiled me. Back then, drinking was still a very new and very exciting concept to me, and I took advantage of the unrestricted drinking laws as often as possible. I went out almost every night, leaving my grandfather in a pool of worry. "Where are you taking her this time?" he'd ask my older cousins. "You better make sure she gets home tonight!" He'd be up until eleven, as long as his tired eyes could handle, waiting like an old sentry for our return. In the mornings, when I'd stumble into the kitchen for breakfast, red-eyed, hung-over, looking like hell, he'd be sitting at the head of the table, watching me with his sparkling onyx eyes. "Good morning, Lolo," I'd say, and plant two big kisses on his cheek and on his head, all before he could question the things I did that night. He'd forget immediately about wanting to scold me.
"You rascal. Okay, now eat! Eat now, eat!"
His fallback was always to take on the patriarchal voice, but I knew he was just sightly embarrassed by my attentions. I'd take one look at the chorizo and eggs (I was a vegetarian then), wrinkle my nose, and ask if there were any mangoes left. And then he'd recall how I didn't eat meat and instantly start barking orders at the cook. "Fetch her mangoes! And only the ripest ones! Do it quickly! Can't you see she's hungry!" My cousins would snicker and roll their eyes. "You make him crazy," they'd tell me later.
I REMEMBER ONE afternoon, my grandfather wanted to walk through the lush gardens of his house to visit his sister who lived next door. He was already frail, even then. His exhausted, rheumatic body needed my young shoulders to help him walk the fifty paces. We walked with a snail's deliberation, pausing every now and then so he could catch his breath. He loved me so much, wanted to show me he was still strong, he'd sometimes try to disguise it just to make me laugh, claiming we only stopped to admire the old stone veranda, the new extensions to the main house, and the explosion of my grandmother's summer flowers.
Another night, when I didn't care for drinking, I hung out in his room, sprawled next to him on his bed, wedged between him and my grandmother. We watched embarrassing soap operas until they were both sound asleep. His hand was on his tummy, holding my wrist. And I knew that somewhere behind the curtain of his dreams, I was three again, crossing a busy market street to get to school with his hand firmly around mine.
I wish now I could see him. Probably for the last time. So I might be the one to hold his hand, and tell him in the way that words cannot, that he has my love, and that even now, we will cross this street together.
Marrying off my mom, circa '91.
I ADORED BOTH of my grandfathers, but I've always been closest to the old Montelibano mestizo. If there was such thing as the natural favorite, you bet it'd be me. I'm his baby's baby, after all, and for a long time, I was also the youngest within the brood of grandchildren. When I turned three, my parents traveled abroad, and I lived in my grandfather's house. He did everything for me: he dressed me in the mornings, fed me, brushed my hair, drove me to Montessori school in his shiny town car, held my chubby hand across busy market streets.
I'd just turned fifteen the last time I went to visit him. No longer a baby, and still he spoiled me. Back then, drinking was still a very new and very exciting concept to me, and I took advantage of the unrestricted drinking laws as often as possible. I went out almost every night, leaving my grandfather in a pool of worry. "Where are you taking her this time?" he'd ask my older cousins. "You better make sure she gets home tonight!" He'd be up until eleven, as long as his tired eyes could handle, waiting like an old sentry for our return. In the mornings, when I'd stumble into the kitchen for breakfast, red-eyed, hung-over, looking like hell, he'd be sitting at the head of the table, watching me with his sparkling onyx eyes. "Good morning, Lolo," I'd say, and plant two big kisses on his cheek and on his head, all before he could question the things I did that night. He'd forget immediately about wanting to scold me.
"You rascal. Okay, now eat! Eat now, eat!"
His fallback was always to take on the patriarchal voice, but I knew he was just sightly embarrassed by my attentions. I'd take one look at the chorizo and eggs (I was a vegetarian then), wrinkle my nose, and ask if there were any mangoes left. And then he'd recall how I didn't eat meat and instantly start barking orders at the cook. "Fetch her mangoes! And only the ripest ones! Do it quickly! Can't you see she's hungry!" My cousins would snicker and roll their eyes. "You make him crazy," they'd tell me later.
I REMEMBER ONE afternoon, my grandfather wanted to walk through the lush gardens of his house to visit his sister who lived next door. He was already frail, even then. His exhausted, rheumatic body needed my young shoulders to help him walk the fifty paces. We walked with a snail's deliberation, pausing every now and then so he could catch his breath. He loved me so much, wanted to show me he was still strong, he'd sometimes try to disguise it just to make me laugh, claiming we only stopped to admire the old stone veranda, the new extensions to the main house, and the explosion of my grandmother's summer flowers.
Another night, when I didn't care for drinking, I hung out in his room, sprawled next to him on his bed, wedged between him and my grandmother. We watched embarrassing soap operas until they were both sound asleep. His hand was on his tummy, holding my wrist. And I knew that somewhere behind the curtain of his dreams, I was three again, crossing a busy market street to get to school with his hand firmly around mine.
I wish now I could see him. Probably for the last time. So I might be the one to hold his hand, and tell him in the way that words cannot, that he has my love, and that even now, we will cross this street together.
Marrying off my mom, circa '91.