My dad and my younger sister, Emily, are flying to Puerto Rico on March 22nd.
One evening, my dad received a phone call while cooking dinner. Dinner, at my house, is pure mayhem. Every light is turned on, every door is flung in, and every TV is on along with the sizzling of the burner on the stove. Once the phone chimed its ringtone, the one that gives me jitters because I don't know whether I'll recognize the voice in it, I picked it up and reluctantly greeted the person. My aunt-- tia in Spanish, but we call her titi Ani-- greeted me back. I usually have my arm straightened out in front of me; almost as if my limb is a metal detector in search of my father. Instead, I told her that her brother was cooking in broken Spanish. She understood regardless, while my father was yelling in the background to let her wait a minute before he could answer. Even though my dad had told me what to say, titi Ani and I still hung up after she asked me if I could have my dad call her back when he was done. I didn't protest. I act this way when his family calls because of our language barrier. I beat myself up about the topic, mostly because I know less of the language than I probably should. I shouldn't be rude to people who love me solely because we don't communicate in the same way. But nonetheless, he quickly called her back, complained about me, and headed towards the hallway, where he stood by the window to talk with his family. My dad mostly talks to titi Ani, only rarely does he talk to any other family member. This time seemed like any other time, as I heard him address his mom and ask her about her well-being. Of course, I only heard parts of his side of the conversation, so I didn't know whether this was just casual conversation. Everything with my dad is casual; he hates any type of distraught emotion, especially sadness.
What surprised me after he ended the phone call was the subtle mention of another visit to his home. He always hints at the endeavor, but drops the topic and carries on. Only now did he spend the next two evenings talking about visiting. Once he briefly told us why, my heart dropped.
His family does not think their mother has much longer to live.
I'm aware that he would be losing his mother to natural causes; she's old, I've heard a few things about her having either dementia or Alzheimer's. And still, my mind makes it seem like nothing worse could happen.
I believe my dad is one of those people that think of death as something to be scared of, but something to be grateful for. You're free of all of the things that have burdened you, you've received all of the opportunities that you could have. I agree with him partially. Some part of me still is stuck on the thought of death not being fair. And death isn't; at least not to the survivors. The mourners. But if my father could be comforted by these thoughts, then I am to say the least.
I wish my dad had more time. To be with his mother, and to cherish the family he has down there. I want him to go home. I could not care less about where I am geographically, just as long as I am home. Home is my people. And if home is not happy, then I am not fully content.
Sacrifice is the only thing that keeps my dad weighed down to New York. He does not want to sacrifice his relationship with his daughters. I understand that, beyond belief, but the topic conflicts a lot more than I want it to.
I'm not dwelling on the past, I'm just admitting that I wish there was a way to go back. Again, it's less about being physically there, and more about the feeling the environment radiates. I want my dad to remember how it felt like to be with his family down in Puerto Rico.
I want my dad to remember what it felt like to be a kid.
Not to live in ignorant bliss, but to be surrounded by love, and to accept love just as much as a child does. A lot of adults do not accept love as easily, and so don't adolescents.
Time travels, but time is diminishing while doing so.
Time does not leave a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow, like Hansel and Gretel did. Time does not allow you to go back to past homes.
TIme should stand still. For once.
Drown in the feelings, is all I'm saying. Of how home feels like now, and of how home used to feel.
I wish you luck. I wish me luck. I wish past you luck. I wish past me luck.
Best of luck chasing time. Traveling and morphing all of these feelings together.
We should all create perfect homes, but homes that are nomadic, so that they can cheat time.
Sounds like a plan.
[The photo I used for this entry was buried in the photo album on my laptop. It is of a popular place to visit in San Juan, Puerto Rico. But this photo is in the eyes of someone else, someone who clearly knows how to take a beautiful picture. Thank you, anonymous source who is probably really easy to find on Google, for taking a picture of one of the beautiful places that Puerto Rico has to offer.
Also funny story, in 2016, I visited this place. My biological aunt, titi Edna, and her daughter Genesis accompanied me. They both warned me to not walk into the balcony that overlooked the water, because it was stained with homeless people's urine. I feel like that isn't something that you should inform people on. And yet, here I am.]