My
sweet Grandpa. Your red Honda
and
Walsenburg house, its duct tape latch.
Your
straw cowboy hat and how you hid butterscotch
candy
in pockets of sweaters, all collar-less, button down,
Izod,
and every color a knitted Christmas gift could be, worn
over
plaid and long-sleeved shirts. Like Juanito Dieguito
(his
tilma full of rosas de Castillas), you, Abuelito freely gave
the
newest snack-pack puddings, cookies, and Ding Dongs
as
sweet signs of devotion to family and Our Lady. Grandma’s stroke
in
Needles, California, punctured your life, but you softened
her
last years the way the strike transformed Abuela from
spitfire
to quiet embers. Yes, the aftermath was kindness
and,
when the lightning that was her life died, you transformed
into
a kind taxi for anyone needing a ride to church or club meetings.
You
would give the plaid from the shirt off your back, if someone
had
tattered clothes. My sweet Grandpa. Your screwdriver,
hammer,
duct tape, baling wire, and more duct tape could fix
anything—except
the cracked finish of your kitchen sink, so you
sprayed
it with lime green paint. You did not judge
another’s
religion. You said, God is God. You
did not
judge
another’s skin. I see you walking to heaven via rainbow
of
duct tape colors, helping whomever you can along the way,
simply
being an example of a changed life to those you left behind.
© 2018 Karen S. Córdova, using words of Viola Romero, Fran Barbera,
Donna Romero and, especially,
Donna Romero and, especially,
