On Valentine’s Day, many people celebrate love with partners of friends; others simply complain about the relentless grip of capitalism, taking advantage of our every feeling; for me, it is a day when I unfailingly reflect on the life of my grandfather, who was born on this day.
His name was Angel, and he arrived in this world on the day we celebrate love: it cannot be a coincidence. My grandpa was a real man who failed many times, but his qualities always rose above his mistakes. He was the wisest person I have ever met: his deep voice adding intelligent humor or moral superiority to every family conversation. He was self-actualized and carried a book under his arm whenever he went. He led community meetings, called out corruption, and sent letters to the newspapers to further dive on newsworthy events. At the same time, he was a loving figure who never failed to greet us with a joyful “hi, honey!”, and buy pineapple bread when we stopped by his house.
There was something magical in him, like in others in my family, but it showed with a particular intensity in him. He was spiritual and had a special sensitivity for the things most of us cannot see or conceive. Although he did not say everything he knew, sometimes he would uncover stories of his youth and early adulthood, where he witnessed battles of good vs. evil. That was where, he said, he learned that prayer is the most effective weapon for protection.
His incidence in my life was of the outmost importance. In my teens, those plagued by uncertainty and insecurity, his advice would be a cornerstone in the formation of my opinions and my aspirations. Perhaps, he recognized in me a certain fear of failure, one he must have felt himself, decades ago, when his dream of becoming a doctor was shattered by the absence of money, forcing him to become a policeman. It was in those conversations when he told me to aim high, to not take no for an answer, to focus on being better than my circumstances and to never have small dreams.
In 2013, he slowly started to leave us. His body was giving up, but his brain was as lively as ever, until, I guess, he became too tired to keep holding on. When I moved away, I called him every day, and with sadness, I noticed how his silences became longer and his words of encouragement turned into thank-yous and goodbyes. His always-active Facebook was fading into abandonment, and the pictures we posted with him and that he so loved, were left unliked and uncommented.
After 4 years of suffering, when he was ready to let go of life, and I noticed. I also knew that it was not how he wished he could have left… after a succession of surgeries that left him exhausted, swollen and with weak vocal cords. He had a tube down his throat and his tears became the only way to know he could hear our prayers and the music we played for him, tunes of a happier time when everything was fine and simple.
When he actually left, I was not by his side. To this day, I feel guilty, selfish even, for having an easier and shorter period of grief than my family. While I experienced an “ojos que no ven, corazon que no siente”, they had to stay in the familiar places and get used to his absence on our couch, where we all watched TV every Sunday after lunch. I have, however, kept a sadness in me that shows up at certain moments, on certain occasions, like on this day, where I can’t help but wish we could have had more time so I could ask him questions about the world and share my victories with him.
I am profoundly hurt by how big the world is, and how little we saw of it together. He always wanted to visit Italy to learn more about his ancestors, so, with a glimpse of hope, he told us that was the first thing he would do when he got better. Moreover, he never ceased to promise he would come visit me, and I held on to that dream, even though it would have taken a miracle to make it happen. And I wish, I always wish I could have shown him a piece of my life and of the place I now call home, and the people of all the nationalities that enrichen my days and help me become a better version of myself, one that I know he would have liked.
Based on his teachings, I know now that things are the only way they could have been. That is how I find solace… That, and in the memories, we built along the years, some of them immortalized in pictures and videos, others ingrained so deeply in my brain they may now seem like thoughts of my own creation. It is there, in my brain and my heart, where he does not cease to exist. I believe that the pace of time will be merciful, and the passing of years will not erase the sound of his laughter, his concerned words and his bits of advice from my reminiscences, so I can always have a piece of him wherever I go.
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