Fly Away.

Two steps away, Grandma cries her heart out. She looks like the shadows in an old room screaming for memories, trying to steal your breath while the words that squeeze your throat get dry. Next to her is my aunt, trying to calm her down, trying to weave some kind of word that will make her feel better, but I can see in her eyes how the strength is leaving her, how her soul stretches like the branches of a tree to reach the voice of my grandpa that still bounces around the room. Mom cries in a corner, alone, with both of her hands holding something that from here looks like a cross. It’s sad to see her like that, like an empty shell waiting for something to fill her up, to grab her and enlighten her again. Poor Mom, even her voice seems to be fading away; I can see her from here, kissing that tiny cross once and again as if she was trying to steal its secret and I’m here, sitting in the floor with my back against the wall watching how the wind hits the windows, how half of the people here don’t even knew my grandfather that much; I’m here watching how my family collapses in a wink of an eye, how my mom tries to be strong even though she can’t. My hands are sweating, my mind wanders around and I’m consciously trying to avoid looking in everybody’s eyes, and its just that this feeling is so powerful and heavy, so breath taking and obscure that I can not move, talk or even scream, although deep inside I want to.

The hours pass by and I can not stop thinking about our summers here in this old and rusty house, how grandpa was always trying to teach us something new, something completely different every time, stars, books, poets, nature … Oh god! How I used to love how his face lightened up with our responses, and with our willingness to learn from him. The steps of people going in and out of the room try to steal my concentration, but I grab Grandpa’s hand, I close my eyes and I’m there again, with him, remembering how I used to draw his wrinkles with my fingers, how I used to count down his moles and kiss his bald head, or even how he use to make up stories about monsters coming after my arms if I didn’t cover them for sleep during night. It is hard to believe that someone like him now rests inside of a casket, inside of a wooden prison waiting for the earth to embrace his body like a seed, making it grow like a tree- a tree in love with the clouds, a tree trying to discover the secret of rain. His body itself is an empty casket. His soul goes around this room, hidden inside the wind, the same that minutes ago was tapping on the windows, the same one that plays with my sisters’ hair outside, making them smile among all of our tears. I stand up trying not to look into mom's eyes. There’s something about them that make me weak, something that breaks me deep inside and keeps me silent. I stand up, walk towards my grandfather‘s coffin and I cry. I cry, I scream and I die a little bit. He looks so peaceful holding one of the smiles that he used to give me after telling a joke , after saying something funny about grandma, one of those smiles that you knew were coming although you couldn’t see them written on his face. I draw his wrinkles on top of the glass that separate us. I count down the moles on his bald head and I smile too.

Grandma tries to explain to us the mystery of death and I don’t want to listen to her. I know what death is. I’m not afraid of it, but I never thought that loosing someone was so painful. I can feel how my breath is made of something like thorns. I can feel how words tear apart under my mouth and I’m silent again. My mom comes, gives me a hug as if she understands me without a word and I fall into this big void that brings sadness. I never had the chance to tell my grandpa that I was proud of him, that he was by far the best example of perfection, that his eyes are my eyes and my hands his hands and that maybe that’s why I know that he is still here, watching my steps, my back and my soul, making jokes behind the words that I keep for me, to name him in the shadows when I need his light in my path.

I wipe my tears quickly. I don’t want my mom to see me so vulnerable. I kiss her shoulder and I look at her. I look at her in silence, distant almost dead. I kiss her again but this time on her forehead, trying to calm her down. It’s when the same words that everyone has said come out of my mouth, but she understands. She always understands, that’s why she gives me a sweet look to then open one of my hands and put her own hands between mine, to then kiss one of them and give me the cross that she was so jealously holding. I give it a look, I walk towards the door and suddenly this sea of sorrow grows in my chest. This feeling is like death itself. It’s like a root of fire burning inside your body. It’s like a knot tiding itself in your ribs. I embrace the feeling. I light a cigarette and start singing the Tangos that my grandpa used to sing to me, while his soul plays within the wind, drawing the wrinkles that some day I will have and will bring his face into mine.

For you paps. I love you soo deeply.