The Missing Picture

My dad never got to meet his grand kids. While we were growing up, he was the grumpy uncle that was easily annoyed by the antics my cousins, my brother, and I provided. He wasn't a bad man, but his patience was limited when it came to the younger set. I would have thought that he would make no concessions for his own grandchildren.

Enter Ar in the summer of 2004. She came to my mom on "loan" from my Tia Lupe who had been watching her for a few months until the planning of her daughter's wedding took a toll on her time. She handed A to us until the big day. She was one.

We all fell in love with her. The wedding came and went. Ar stayed. She quickly became a part of our family. We looked forward to her arrival each morning.

My dad was a changed man. He played with her. He hugged her. He teased her. He loved her. And when her little brother arrived two years later, he had enough love to give him as well.

In the mornings when Car got there he would run into my dad's room to say good morning. My dad would still be in bed as Car walked to the edge to babble his greeting. On the day that Car went to see my dad lying in his coffin, he uttered the same thing he had for months one last time. In the days that followed, Car and Car alone would see my dad outside the sliding glass door. Car has no memory of any of this, or my dad for that matter. But the memories of the joy he brought my dad will forever be embedded in my mind.

When those kids stepped through the front door, they walked straight into his heart.

On the first anniversary of his death, I spoke about the comfort I felt knowing how much he would have loved his grand kids. I saw it with my own eyes. Without Ar and Car I would never have known. They are angels. I love them so much. Just like my dad did.

There will never exist a picture of my dad with either of his granddaughters, but I have a pretty good idea of what it would look like if there were:

This was waiting for me the other morning when I logged into Facebook.

That's my dad and my goddaughter, Ar. I can't make out the year it was taken ~ looks like '98, but that's when he passed away, and judging by the sandals and sundress Ar is wearing, I would assume it was sometime during summer. He left us on January 13.

I love the look on his face. This could very well be my favorite picture of him. I love it. It's exactly as he looked those last couple of years.

Looking at it made me realize that in the photo album of my kids' lives, there will always be a missing picture. It made my cry for the first time in a while over his death. It made me miss him. At the same time, it made me happy. And it made the realization of that missing picture a little bit easier to bear.

Thank You for sharing, My Ar!

A Dozen Years

Today is the 12th anniversary of my dad's death. I'm putting it down because it is not because I have anything noteworthy to say about it, yet I feel it should be commemorated somehow and today this is the best I can do.

The first year after his passing we had a big shindig at my mom's house. Padre Ramos who is a priest and a good friend of my mom's, came over and held a mass. There was food, family, and remembrances of him. The next year we had an early-morning mass that my mom and I attended along with a couple of other family members that could get away from the office on a weekday. Since then, I don't recall any other reunion, not even two years ago when he hit the decade mark. My mom always holds a mass in his honor and goes to the grave site to put some flowers down.

This time of year has in past years been difficult for me. Subconsciously I know that the day is approaching and I start to feel blue a couple of days before and on the actual day there's tears that flow throughout. I have none of that today or in days past. While I refuse to read too much into it or try to get to the root of the problem, if that's what it is, I do find it strange.

The day is still vivid in my mind, like it was yesterday. But today I feel like an outsider standing in front of a window looking in. I feel removed, not unlike the way I felt that day and the days that followed. I was busy, tired, and numb. I remember sitting at his funeral mass and thinking that I should be crying but my eyes were dry and my heart felt empty. It wasn't until he was laid to rest and the house that was filled with people just a couple of days before also became empty, that I deflated like a balloon and was able to finally cry.

The tears came for many, many days after that, as I suspect will be the case this time.

Descansa en Paz, Papi.