1 A.J.

I was sitting in Lindy’s office when the phone call came. Jennifer hardly ever calls me, so I answered right away. Her voice was serious as she said, “Jorge didn’t wake up this morning. When I tried to wake him up, he wasn’t breathing, and his lips were purple. They’re taking him to Las Palmas.” 

So I'm Thinkin' About Forgiveness

Even though Jorge was the baby boy of the family, I always had a sense that there was something off between Dad and Jorge.

I remember when I was about four or five the police was called at two in the morning because in a drunken rage, Dad had taken the mattress Jorge was sleeping on and had flipped it with Jorge still on it.

The Safety Dance

The summer my mom botched her pacemaker battery replacement surgery I stayed in El Paso for six weeks. That's the longest I have ever stayed there since moving away for college in 2002. 

Messing with Mota #1

If you know me, then you know that I love to laugh. If I'm not finding a reason to laugh, then there is something truly wrong with me. The love of laughing, as you might guess, is a result of Jorge's influence on me. 

#2

Going on a car ride when I was a little kid was always the most exciting thing. Often times, we rode the bus or walked anywhere we went because my mom didn't drive. Because my dad's job was driving a taxi, often times he wasn't home and if he was, he was either sleeping or drunk. When we did family things, it was often just my mom and us kids. 

Musical Links

Growing up, my mom always said that when someone died, you were supposed to be in luto, grief. You were supposed to wear black, not partake in any types of festivities, and not play any music. But how can I not listen to music when it was such a big part of my relationship with my brother.

DSA

The day I found out he had passed, I was on my way to a U of H football game. We bought season tickets because of him. He loved football. As I took the exit toward the university, the radio screen on my car displayed his mom’s name. I quickly answered her call to be greeted by his aunt. She asked how I was and then said, “I have some bad news for you honey. Daniel passed away.” I asked what happened and how his parents were and we hung up.

After we got off the phone, my friend called me, and we talked for a bit. I tell him almost everything, but I didn’t tell him about Daniel. I couldn’t. I knew that once I did, it was going to be real.

I got to the place where I park and sat there for a bit. Then, it all sank in. I texted my sister, and I called another friend to tell her. I cried some. And then, I got out of my car and walked to the stadium. I was grateful that it was bright out because my sunglasses could help cover up the tears.

When I got to the stadium, I sat in the stands, where he always liked to sit, and tried to keep calm. It was hard because all I could think about was how his aunt said he’d been dead some time before anyone found him. And although I never would have wished for this to happen, a part of me kind of expected it. Being at the game helped me feel closer to him. I know he would have wanted me to make it to the game. It felt like the best way to honor him was to be there.

In the coming days, I couldn’t understand how the world could go on as if he had never existed. I would go to the park and get on the bike path I like to run and feel the tears just stream from my eyes. Once I’d get back to my car, I was so exhausted that I didn’t feel anything anymore.

At his funeral, the minister didn’t really know anything about him. He shared stories Daniel’s family had told him, but he didn’t really honor his life. He didn’t talk about how patient he was when Gabi asked him about football. Or how he loved to surprise people in any way he could. How he had wanted so badly to be a father. How he had loved me so much even after I had broken his heart.

He was buried in an Eagles jersey which was fitting because he was their biggest fan. But he looked nothing like I remembered him. I touched his chest and it felt hollow. The only thing that felt the same was his big beard that I never cared for. But I was happy to caress it one last time.

It was hard to go around town because everywhere, there was a reminder of him. The pizza place he loved. The place we’d go get shaved ice from. The store where he worked. The movie theater we always went to. The hospital we were at when he was diagnosed with diabetes. The park where I was so angry with him and decided I was done. The store he went to buy crappy food he could fix because we were broken up.

At first, the guilt was overwhelming. But I know I couldn’t have kept him alive. He wasn’t willing to take care of himself. That was one of the reasons I wanted to end things. It was too much to have to take care of him and myself. I just couldn’t anymore.

As is the case with all grief, the sadness started to dissipate. I found things that helped me cope, like jogging. I threw myself into work. I prayed a rosary for nine days. I created a profile on a dating site and went on a couple dates.

But as is also the case with grief, sometimes it catches me off guard. I’ll be walking through a store and hear a song that he liked and the tears come. I hold them back until I’m able to get to my car and let it out.

After his passing, my mom said that his death will forever mark my life. I had to buy a new journal because I couldn’t keep writing in the one that I talked about our breakup and how free I felt. Now, my freedom is tainted with the sadness of his death.

El día de los muertos, I was overwhelmed with sadness. I cried myself to sleep that night. I’m sure there will be more nights like that. Losing someone that was such a big part of your life for so long isn’t easy, even if they weren’t part of your life anymore.

El Final

Things had not been going well for a long time. It seemed that time only exacerbated the issue instead of fixing it. Even when we dealt with the problems head on, we didn't seem to come to a compromise. He wanted more of this and I wanted more of that, but neither of us wanted to budge.

As I was clearing out a shelf on a bookcase, I came across a journal from six years before that discussed the same problem. It was a moment of clarity for me. One that helped me become brave and say the words that I'd been needing to say for years: It's time we go our separate ways. 

Saying these words to him made me sad and angry. I'd put all my chips on this guy, and he failed to believe in the hope I had in him. In the hope that we could make it work and be those people that stay together forever because, despite his fear of marriage, I hung around. Eventually though, those words made me feel brave and liberated, like a true-life feminist. 

Telling people about the break up resulted in heads cocked to the side and looks of pity because most people knew we'd been together for so long and imagined we'd be together forever. I'd always give them my best smile and tell them I was fine. 

When he finally moved out, I stopped by to pick up the key from under the mat before going back to my sister's for the weekend. There were tears when I read the heartfelt note his mom had left, but then, much like Mrs. Mallard in a Story of an Hour, I took a deep breath and imagined the possibilities my life held again.

The Trendsetter

The end of 6^th grade saw the demise of what had been normal life for me. By the time the start of 7^th grade rolled around, I had a dad who didn’t drink and took my mom and I out to dinner a few time a week, a sister in college, a brother in the army, and another brother with a stable, well-paying job. It was weird. I, instead of being happy about this, hit a funk. In fact, had I talked about this with a medical professional, they may have diagnosed me with depression.

Ransom Gone Wrong

This week’s prompt:

Tell a story that begins with a ransom note.

My response after the jump.

Dramatic Irony

There is a person in my family that is really, really sick. She’s been sick for a while and most of us know, but there is one person that hasn’t been told, my mom. I know it’s wrong to hide such a big thing from her, but this person has decided that they would rather she not know since my mom’s health is pretty fragile as well.

So many misunderstandings have occurred because of this secret--things that if it were out in the open wouldn’t be much of a big deal. But there is nothing I can do. It is up to that person to come clean.

In the meantime, I continue talking with my mom and feeling like I’m watching a Shakespeare play with the dramatic irony unfolding right before me.

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A couple months ago when I mentioned my niece being shipped out to war, it didn’t happen because she rolled her ankle and had to have surgery and a brace, etc.

Today she’s finally on her way. I say finally because that’s what she makes it sound like. She told me the other day that she wanted to leave already so that she could get back to see her little brothers.

Strange how she had to leave Easter weekend out of all the weekends. We’ve talked a bit on Yahoo when she wakes up and signs in on her phone. I need to find a St. George candle.

There are so many things I want to tell her, but I’m also trying to remain positive about the whole situation. I just hope she knows, knows how much I love her and hope she's safe and think about her.

Flight 2701 to Houston Hobby 3:05 PM

I’m on my way back to Houston after a short holiday visit to El Paso. I have the most beautiful view of the Franklins from my gate. The clouds are rolling over the rumpled earth beneath them. Rolling toward the east, perhaps to meet me in the sadness that settles in every time I have to leave.

It was a great visit. I got to see all of the people that I love and miss. This visit, more than any other, cemented the idea that I have outgrown this place. I love it so much, and I wish that some day, I could come back to live here, but it’s not where I can make my home. The way that people treat one another would probably drive me crazy. I hate how some people think that they are above others.

I wish so much for my mom and brother to move to the Houston area. Things wouldn’t be peachy at first, but it would be so nice to have family around. Sometimes it is so lonely there. So many times there are things that happen that I wish I could have them around to vent or to share joy with. Perhaps someday.

In the meantime, all we have are cloudy skies and teary eyes. 

From the Vault

My little blue flash drive that I got when I was still in college has finally run out of space. Because I know that I have multiples of some files, I decided I should clear up some space to keep adding stuff to it.

Anyway, I found what seems to be a blog entry that I never posted. This was typed up 12/29.2006...

As I sit/sat here in the wee hours of the morning, listening to my favorite Counting Crows album (Hard Candy), chipping away at my brain for words and ideas, I’m reminded of one of my favorite places on the UH campus, the library. It is one of the things I miss most about college. Unlike most students at U of H, who hardly or never set foot in the library, I was there almost on a daily basis.

In my early college days, I didn’t know how to use the library. I’d end up frustrated and running to the internet or bookstore to find enough info to write my papers. It is of no surprise that most of those papers were really a piece of crap. I haven’t seen one lately, but I’m sure they were. On top of that, I had just learned to use a pc and I’m certain I’d been using something other than word to type them which made them esthetically horrid.

Moving from El Paso to Houston didn’t automatically make me a library expert. In fact, I’m sure that I still didn’t know how to use a library when I got here. It was slowly and with the help of many people that I learned about all the different sections of the library. There were some I spent a lot of time in and others I never set foot in (which is really pretty sad).

But my favorite thing to do at the library was sit in a cubby and study or write. I remember the year I got stuck with the ghastly schedule in which I worked most of the day and had class at night, I’d leave work and spend the rest of the afternoon on the fourth floor in a cubby in front of the window translating Chaucer as I listened to some music.

Going to the library, I always had to go alone too. It never worked if I went with someone else because I would talk or they’d want to leave.

Or, they could accidentally throw off my routine: As I was leaving work or class, I’d plug myself up to my musical device. Upon arriving at the library, I’d pick up a Daily Cougar on my way inside. I’d usually take the older elevator because if there were too many people milling around, I’d take the stairs across from them. When I found an appropriate cubby (if mine had been taken), I’d sit down and take out my books, notebooks, and pens (I usually carry at least three pens and pencil). Then, I’d read the Daily Cougar, maybe do a little free writing to clear the brain, and then start my homework.