the heavy silence had set in once more, despite the Z100 tunes and the roaring of the car engine in the background. we were leaving that house in the city, the one where she and I grew up, the one that had been in the family for almost 25 years now. it was always a safe haven amongst the hustle and bustle of the city. the little brick house in Queens that has seen more changes in us, in structure, in community--more than any one of us ever thought possible. i had always thought of the house as the one place where i could turn, but not on this day. on july 3rd we fled, far away, to a relative's house outside the city. we found ourselves in the woods.
this isn't how i thought it would happen, but i guess things like this can't ever be planned. my grandfather passed away on tuesday and though we all knew it was coming, i was shaken. one hundred and four: that's how old we believe he was. you can't ever trust birth documents in a country that is constantly losing files to natural disasters, so his age was determined by word of mouth, tracking down his past and matching it to other relatives' accounts.
my last memory of him was the night before as we said goodnight at the hospital: he was curled up in a white blanket, with a white cloth over his head. he looked like a newborn infant, innocent and ready to be introduced to the world. so weak he could no longer speak, swallow, eat. hadn't done so for days. but he would still stroke his head, just like he always had. that's not how i want to remember him though...
my favorite memory of him was when my cousins and i were around nine years old and gathered around a new video game in the little brick house. we believed we were home alone. we were hypnotized by the game on the screen when we hear the approaching heavy footsteps of a man. he's six foot one, has a built frame, and darkened mustache and eyebrows. who is this intruder? we all scream and frantically run around, he's definitely out to kill us like those zombies in the video game. then he speaks, and his voice is gentle. it has that soothing quality we all know and that boyish chuckle we recognize. it's our grandfather with newly dyed facial hair. in an attempt to look younger, he fooled us all into thinking he was a stranger.
then there were the countless times he would chase us around the rose garden, right outside the little brick house. he'd have at least three rubber bands on his wrist, and one wrapped around his fingers. a perfect slingshot aimed at us. i remember hiding behind derek, my shield against those menacing rubber bands. my heart would race whenever i'd see them; when he didn't have them out though, i'd beg for him to bring them out. it was always our game.
there's also the countless summer afternoons when we would sit on the steps of the little brick house and sip semi-frozen coke and munch on cheeto's. i don't think i've ever seen anyone have such a great look of satisfaction as they lick the remains of cheeto's off their fingers. the puffy ones always remind me of him.
whatever the memory is, it's surely tied to either that brick house in Queens or the orange house in la Republica Dominicana. and so on that day, we fled the city and took a trip. we went far, far, far. no cellphone service, no internet, no city skyscrapers, no nosy neighbors. just family. she broke the heavy silence in the car when she turned to me and said, "you know, i feel at peace now knowing that he's moved on. that he's no longer suffering." though we shed our fair amount of tears and said our prayers, i feel at peace too. knowing that he's on to greater and better things and that he served such a wonderful purpose while he was with us. i'm blessed to have had an abuelo who was such an ever present part of my life.
and now, as i'm back in the little brick house, writing this up, i'm flooded with memories of being six years old and hiding from my parents in this corner (i can see my old house from this window and would watch them cross the street to pick me up). i have memories of being eight years old and playing with dolls in this corner. of being thirteen and painting my nails in this corner. i love this little brick house, i love the memories it keeps, i love my family, i love my abuelo.
