Why I love my grandfather

What is like to see yourself old at the age of ninety, wrinkly skin, unaligned thumbs, still with hair on your head, with those sky clear blue eyes of yours. Gravity is winning your battle. I remember when you used to stand straight. You used to give me kisses and I hated it because your beard felt like needles stabbing my cheeks. You thought it was funny how much I complained about your beard that you would rub your face against mine.

My grandfather, a man of honor, raised seven children on a humble farm in San Jose, Costa Rica. His harvesting skills were just as impressive as his protective instinct to use his machete against any unwanted venomous snake who came close to or inside the house. I have countless memories of how I spent my childhood running up and down the farm, but as I aim closer to the memories I had with my grandfather, I begin to appreciate the opportunity of having a grandfather and grandmother who were present as I was raised.

I wonder. What is like to raise nine children, meet the love of your life, your wife, at the age of seventeen, see your daughters and sons grow and leave the house, see granddaughters and grandsons come and go. What is like seeing your brother right next to you, him being eighty-five years old. I know an embarrassing story that your brother told me about you. He told me about one time you and him were walking home when the man who always bothered you appeared on the road.

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The man always made fun of your pants because your pants had holes by your butt. I heard of the story of “the twin” (my grandfather was a twin but his twin brother died as my grandfather was retrieved from the womb) who “ate” that man’s clothes because he made fun of you. I asked you if that was right and you still believe you ate that man’s clothes. I remember when I was eight years old, you visited my house and I didn’t let you sleep on my bed. I remember feeling bad about it and retracting what I had said. I remember us sitting in the couch watching your telenovelas every day at three in the afternoon. You would fall asleep with your mouth open, neck laid back. As soon as I tried changing the channel, you would wake up and tell me that you were still watching. I remember the one time that my uncles paid cable TV for you just so that you could watch some shows at night. I still laugh because you had such a big smile when they turned on the TV.

I remember you would put some Cacique (alcohol) in my arroz con leche, so that I could see what it was like. I remember every time you saw a beautiful woman pass by the house (the rate at which people in general walk by is super small, imagine country and very few houses around you), you would whistle at her and asked her to dance with you. Your sense of humor was never an issue. I have recorded in my mind your laugh, how your cough sounds, the time we sat together to talk about your life, the time I fixed your cane because the screw was a bit loose. I can hear you calling me Toño Pepe, and as I look up to see your face, you are now laying down on a bed, unable to move, speak, eat, or almost breath. Your oxygen saturation is fourteen below the normal ninety-five oxygen saturation due to a lung infection. Your blood sugar is high, and so your cardiac frequency.

The ulcer in your stomach is preventing you from eating and creating pain as you cough. I am here, waiting for you to tell me if you still want that one coconut ice-cream we always eat together. I love you papa .