Papa

Chapter 1

“Tú abuelito está infermo… voy a ir a México mañana,” stated my mother.

Most of my relatives from my mother’s side that reside here in the United States rushed off to Mexico after hearing about my grandfather’s hospitalization. I did not accompany them because prom was almost here and my dress was about the price of a plane ticket. It did not matter much to me because I thought they were all being foolish. They were all acting as if he was going to die.

My grandfather had recently visited the U.S. about a year or so ago. It had been too many years since he had seen his now grown-up children, and it had been the first time he met some of his grandchildren. I was ecstatic like a little girl because my papa was coming. I wanted him to stay with us forever, but he quickly went from child to child and then was ready to go back home to his tierra. I was puzzled and could not phantom why he did not want to stay here with us… with me. We would care for him so much more than his selfish and rivaling children in Mexico. He would not have to witness his children fight against each other over stupidities and watch them waste year after year of misplaced hatred against each other without realizing what it was doing to my grandfather. To this day, I do not understand how they could have done that to him and how even after his death, they desecrated his memory by placing blame on each other for his death.  

Yes, I have another grandfather who visits quite often but I never mention him to anyone. He does not even know who I am and only cares for his tons of grandchildren and great-grandchildren collectively. I suppose it was not his fault, but I was selfish and needed to be loved as an individual. My mother’s father was the only one that loved me like a daughter and that was why I only loved him. Every two and something years I would go to Mexico and on my arrival I would encounter him working on his little farm that was not really a farm but he really wanted to think that he was “working” for a living. On hearing my steps on the dry soil, he would lift up his head as a smile would slowly come across his face. His bright eyes with twinkles of gold reminded me of a child, because they were so lively, young, and eager. Sadly though, his eyes also reflected shades of dark brown displaying bits of sadness, loneliness, and unfortunately age.

“Abuelito,” I would yell as I would lightly hug him.

“Hola Lyssette! Casí no te reconocí,” he would respond even though he would always remember me.

This was my real papa I thought to myself. He was the father figure in my life that I needed close to me. He was the paternal and safe comfort that people long for. My grandfather was hardworking, gentle, understanding, and loving. My biological father was violent, angry, and narrow minded. No, that man was not my papa at all. Even though I had him as a father, I was more than satisfy to have a sweet grandfather even if he was miles and miles, time and time away. That was more than enough for me.



Chapter 2

“Abraza, tú abuelo Lyssette!,” demanded my mother.

She did not have to chastise me; I was planning on hugging him. I was just upset and confused about him leaving so soon. As I softly hugged my grandfather, a stupid and malicious thought jumped inside my mind that this was going to be the last time I would see him. This was going to be the last time I will feel the warmth of his kind embrace. Damn my mind and its evil ways of thinking. I was being so stupid and negative because that was impossible… he can’t die.

Chapter 3

We were riding on a run-down public bus in downtown Los Angeles. My eyes wandered over the urban and impoverished scenes of filthy streets, eccentric bums yelling out the end of the world, apartments probably occupied with drug dealers and illegal immigrants, swindlers cheating novices out of their money, and an old white church standing alone in the middle of it all. I held my cell phone close to my face and away from the ears of my companion.

“Some people from my dad’s family said he already died, but I’m not sure if it’s true,” said my brother sadly with a pathetic touch of hope.

“Okay, I’ll find out what happened,” I responded followed by a quick, unemotional “bye” and a click of the phone. My friend turned to me probably seeking in the depths of my eyes for any look of lost or depression. She smiled and the sun illuminated her friendly and placid face. I looked away making a joke about some building we passed by, we laughed, and then we continued our brave adventure in the dangerous streets of LA.

Later that same day, while I was sitting on the floor of my friend’s room, my cousin called and confirmed the rumor. My friend was once again looking at me with a somewhat anxious face.

“Oh yeah, he died already,” I said coldly.

“And you didn’t tell me?!,” she said surprised and somewhat angry.

“I didn’t want to dampen the mood,” I responded with a now hopelessly quirky tone.

She stared at me we an upset expression, muttered some things about existentialism, and then we went to rent a movie. I spent my few days before my mother’s return at my friend’s house. I was an orphan and had no where to go. I did not cry, I simply sighed and looked away.


Chapter 4

It was the first time I had ever been to Mexico on my own. This was also the first time I would not stay in my grandfather’s house during my stay there. It was too lonely my mother had said. When I arrived at the house of my father’s relatives and when I went to see my mother’s siblings, no one mentioned my grandfather or offered to take me to the graveyard. At least, not until my nine year old cousin from my father’s side was bold and smart enough to ask. I waited for her the next day to return from school and then we walked side by side. They had buried him with my grandmother, so it should not be too difficult to find. As we were walking over the dusty, stoned roads to the graveyard, my cousin described the funeral with a chirpy and content tone. She remembered leaning on my mother on top of another tomb because she wanted to get a closer look. She mentioned the cousins who were there and how she had just been there for her own grandfather’s death two days before.

“Porque no venistes?” she pondered afterwards.

“Tenia que ir a un baile de mi graduacion,” I reasoned.

“Fue el mismo dia?”

“No, fue dos dias duespues de que se murio.”

“Entonces, pudistes haber vendido.”

“Es que… nunca pense que se iba morir.”

My cousin sighed, and said she understood. We entered the graveyard and I realized I had not brought any flowers which my mother would have normally done for my grandmother but I did not want to go back now. I searched around and I could not find the familiar white painted blocks of stone that protruded from the ground marking my grandmother’s grave. I felt ridiculous because I should know where it is. I jumped over graves, stepped on others as I frantically looked for his name. As I did, my little cousin introduced me to my family members that laid inside their tombs. Uncles, great-grandparents, and long lost cousins were among the many. The sun was pushing me down and burning my skin when my cousin discovered some fruits to eat. We sat in the shade of a leafy green tree on top of a tomb, when my cousin was about to hand me the fruit she asked, “Has pecado?” I responded with a slightly shocked, and yet honest, “No.” My cousin was content with the answer and we slurped up the juices of the fruit as she described to me her “dream tomb.” She wanted a stoned angel for the tombstone and a blue tiled tomb that was further decorated with crosses and flowers. Then she inquired to me of how I would like mine to be made, and I told her I did not care because I would be dead. My cousin laughed at me almost arrogantly, and she told me I would see it from heaven.

When we were finished defiling someone’s loved one’s grave with skins of our delicious cemetery fruit, my cousin suddenly remembered where my grandfather was buried. She hopped up and sprinted towards it. I was surprised to find that they had covered it with a more expensive tomb and it had an overbearing cross with a book engraved with the names of my grandparents. This was the reason I could not find it… they had changed it. The tomb appeared to have a small rectangular window with bars and I kneeled down beside it to look through. I felt my disappointment glaze over my eyes because I had actually expected to see my abuelito looking back at me with his sombrero and those child-like eyes. There was nothing but darkness. My cousin went and picked a light, dusty pink rose from the garden in the cemetery. She asked once again if I was sure I had not sinned, and responded the same way. With gentleness and a little prayer, my cousin placed the rose on my grandparent’s tomb. I stole another rose and then we left.
On my last day in Mexico, I entered the old house filled with memories of frogs, screaming rugrats, and constant food poisoning when I saw the annoying changes that were made since I had been there last. I knocked and was pleasantly surprised to see my great-uncle opened the door who almost immediately remembered me. I recognized his brother’s young sparkling eyes in him. This place was not lonely at all, my tio Kiko was still here. I spoke to him and caught him up with any news from back home. Afterwards, I went next door and spoke to my aunt who told me I could stay at my grandfather’s house the next time I came. My younger cousin, who would be older by then, would keep me company. I told her I would.


Chapter 5

My mother poked me with a yellow envelope and told me they found it among my grandfather’s possessions. It was a Father’s Day hallmark card that I had sent him through mail. I had been sitting on my cousin’s bed listening to her traumatic experience with the more bold and approaching boys in Mexico. My aunt condescendingly spoke over my shoulder after I opened the card, “Look at how much he loved you, and you don’t even take the time to remember him!”
Tears of anger began to force themselves from my eyes as I held my frustrated words within my mouth. I did not say anything to her because I knew I would not win this battle since my aunt and mother thought they knew me so well.


Chapter 6

“Estámos resando para tú abuelito”

“Ya no resó, Mamá.”


Chapter 7

It has been about year since my grandfather’s death, although I am not sure if it was this month or the month before that he died. It really does not matter, he died and that’s the point of it. I thought about the irony of my beloved grandfather dying partly because he was an alcoholic, and part of the reason I despised my living father was because he was an alcoholic. About two weeks after my mother’s return from my grandfather’s funeral, I opened my door only to find smears of blood against the pale white of the door, and my idiot father stumbling all over the place. When I woke my mother she panicked and fell in a fetal position bawling. I called the paramedics, I forced my father to lay down as I opened his bloody mouth to help him breath. I stood by the doorway as I watched these strangers carry my resisting and annoyed father out of the house. It ended up that my father had merely smashed his nose against the sink from being so intoxicated. I, of course, was given the great honor of washing the dark and bright spats of blood from the sheets, the carpet, the walls, the sink, and anywhere else my father’s managed to get to. My mother told me before she lingered off to sleep that she did not want to see a drop of it in the morning. I sighed and looked away.

Laying in my warm, stiff bed I wondered if I was a puppet or pet of some supreme being that enjoyed seeing me grasp for hope and then have it be pulled away. It has really been a year, and Father’s Day is coming up. I read that the rose symbolized a father’s love… and the white rose represented a deceased father. So I thought of the white ivory rose in all of its immaculate grace as my mind wandered further from my unmoving body. Droplets of water quickly glided down my cheeks soaking the pillow underneath my face as I clung to my blanket.
I whispered to myself with a quivering and pathetic voice, “I want my papa back..”