Simple things

We are borrowing one of my parents' cars right now for yet another repair on the Volvo.
This morning, when I drove away from my home on my way to work, I enjoyed the sounds of
a tape in the deck...maybe Enrique Chia's clangy pounding that manages to sound romantic on the piano.
Sounds I'll always associate with my dad.  And I was thinking of how hard it is to connect with him,
how he doesn't engage, how difficult it will be to let go of that opportunity when he is no longer here...

Then the tape was broken with the sound of my father, speaking in a voice more sweetly than I knew
he possessed.  And he was repeating a name that's burned on a part of my broken heart...

Galito?  Galito? 

The voice repeats perhaps 20 times, sweetly, softly and searching...and then just for a second, I hear my brother's
adult voice in the background, saying something inaudible.  Then another song cuts in...I felt like I'd been touched from
some other world, or that there was some parralel universe where my father and brother shared only soft voices,
tender moments and Enrique Chia.

I wondered how often my father listened to this tape, and if he fast-forwarded through the music just to hear the quick
unintelligible mutterances of my long-gone brother...his only son whose name is written all over his broken heart, and I thought of my
sweet children and their tender voices, and how precious we all are to somebody.  We miss you, Galito.

Prepare ye

I went to the St. Agnes Christmas pagaent with Ana the other night.  As we parked, I asked a passer-by if it was in the church (I saw so many students entering the gym...had to be a staging area)...

As Ana and I walked, I explained the significance of the church...
how my parents had married there,
I'd been baptized, and received my first communion, and confessed my second-grade sins, and been confirmed as a Catholic...and as we walked over in the cold, I could hear the loud chords of my favorite song on our Friday school mass:

I know nothing of tomorrow. 
Except the love of God. 
Will Rise before the sun. 
The love of God will rise before the Sun...

We entered (we were 30 minutes early), and there was a crowd gathered with a Wedding Expert explaining what would happen during the wedding ceremony that would happen a few days later.  Ana didn't fully understand what was happening, and I wasn't going to fully explain.  This Wedding Expert was all about her business, and I didn't want to disrupt.  As she was explaining how hands and feet should be positioned (no crossing your feet!  right hands over left!), Ana raised her eyebrows and guffawed, then crossed her ankles, making eye contact with me.  What a rebel.

While we sat, I thought of you walking up the wide center aisle in the brown robe Tia Ella had sewn for you.  You were such a handsome John the Baptist.  I could hear your voice, and remembered you practicing for days.  "Prepare ye the Way of the Lord."  I thought of how I'd been in the choir, and always wanted to be Mary, or a sheep, or an angel...and you, who always felt like you were being looked at, were probably secretly horrified and surprised to have been chosen...how our roles changed as we grew...who might you have been had you not become sick?  That's a futile exercise, I know.  But I do this quite often.

You were so handsome then, and so whole, and happy.  I'm still mystified that all of that changed, and we became strangers to you, only to find you again after you died. 

All of those images of your death and the weeks prior have come back to me again.  Even though Christmas with you in the last few years meant averting the crowd until time for presents, when you'd respond as excitedly as the children.  And we'd breathe a sigh of relief if we managed to avoid an episode...those never seemed to happen at Christmas.  You loved Christmas, and always bought Mara and Morgan gifts that I saw as extravagent, wasteful, and ridiculous.  Why would you buy a $300 tricycle, then put your child in a car with a broken child seat?  I hated that, and still resent those choices...and I know my judgements came between us so often.

Well, Ana and I waited...and waited...until I felt sure that we were in the wrong place.  We finally found our way over to the GYM.  How could they move the pagaent there, I don't know?  But when I saw the cherubic and unsure John the Baptist walk up toward the stage, I was grateful.  Grateful he wasn't tall and handsome with the booming voice you'd had as you sang up toward the alter...I don't know if I could've handled it with my sweet baby girl sitting on my lap. 

Ana was confused about why I couldn't talk to Mr. Caire, whom I'd pointed to earlier as my favorite teacher.  The last time I heard from him, he was signing your online obituary.  I couldn't see him and NOT talk about you, even if he avoided the subject.  When I told Ana that I just didn't want to talk about my sadness, not tonight, she seemed to understand...but she has asked so many questions since...like how did you become sick?  How long were you sick?  Am I still sad?  Will I always be sad?

Losing you has hurt so badly, and I'm reminded of it each day.  Mom and Dad are so tense and short with each other these days.  Mom doesn't want to celebrate much, but she's finding her way.  And I guess I just have to find my way...I keep thinking I'm moving to a healing place, and then find myself here again.  I just loved you so much, Galito.  More than you could ever know.  I hope you've found some peace.  It's the only thing that eases my mind.  Rest in Peace.  The rest of us are searching...searching for answers, and memories, and pieces of you wherever they might be.  It's the opposite of peace.