Sigh.

Last week was a very busy week for this blog. I was feeling creative and jolly and what not, and I hope you enjoyed those posts.

But I'm afraid to tell you something quite bad did happen last week after all those fun posts. My grandfather passed away last Wednesday.

The first thing I was asked by someone was 'were you close to him?"

I didn't even attempt to answer such complicated (and loaded) question.

My grandfather had dementia... or I guess you can call it Alzheimer's. I choose not to, because his illness was triggered, in a way, the moment my grandmother passed away, in 2008. From being perfectly fine, he started deteriorating rapidly once she was gone. I think it was too much for him--the love of his life, over 50 years together, gone after a terribly brutal battle with cancer. He kind of just checked out, mentally.

So the man that was my grandfather quickly vanished into a shadow of memories. I can't say that I was close to him because he didn't know me anymore.

Moreover, family relationships are very different when you are an immigrant. I hadn't been around my grandpa for years, except for a couple times a year. A thousand miles separated us. I couldn't even come to my grandmother's funeral in 2008. So the last time I saw my grandpa was in 2012, when I went to visit him at a "retirement" home (Retirement? From what? I find the name so absurd).

He was laying in a tiny bed in a room where there were other men laying in tiny beds. There was an old man sitting in a chair calmly but yelling the whole time. The room was stuffy and smelly, and my grandpa was covered with a coarse blanket.

I will never forget the moment I saw him. His body had shrunk from the strong man he always was, the man who would dress up as Santa Claus in Christmas, to a tiny and fragile frame. It seemed like I could hold him in my arms like a small child. His limbs were withered and his eyes enlarged by famine.

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and there was a fraction of a second in which his eyes lighted up in recognition, as my dad whispered to him who I was. Then the light was extinguished and my grandfather continued talking (barely audible) about his life 50, 40, 30 years ago.

So it's hard to say "yes, I was close to him." Yet I refuse to say "No, I was not close to him." Because he loved me. Despite the distance and his eccentricity and my awkwardness. And I think I take after him quite a lot: he spoke passionately, he had outrageous ideas, he enjoyed good food, and he loved the Lord.

I went through the attic of my memory to search for the mementos of our relationship:

He called me chula every time he saw me. That's a very Mexican way of saying "pretty girl."
He would fist-pump when my grandma cooked something really good.
He loved to eat bolillos.
After he had his heart attack, he got really healthy and would make yucky healthy smoothies with cactus and stuff.
He once told his grandchildren "Waste water! Don't listen to those crazies who say we need to conserve water. We have PLENTY OF WATER. WASTE IT!"
He was "Poncho Claus" for Christmas.
He used talk about his great-granduncle, Pascual Orozco, a hero of the Revolution.
He hated Pancho Villa.
He evangelized hundreds of people throughout his life and God did work through him.

He had this beautiful ritual with grandma every day in which they would lay hands on each other, bless each other, and make the sign of the cross in each other's forehead. Every. single. day. And the blessing they pronounced, well, I don't remember it verbatim, but it went something like this:

"My dear wife/husband,
I love you, I forgive you, and I bless you,
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Abuelito, thank you for being a part of my life. You did leave your mark. I love you and I know that now you are yourself again, made whole, with your memories and your wit and your passion, but now in heaven, contemplating the Lord face to face. And now you are with her again, for the rest of eternity.