Dad in his U.S. Army uniform
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Mom, age 15, overlooking Whittier, Ca
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"Stories have kept me afloat.
Perhaps that is the reason we tell stories,
because we ourselves are stories." -author unknown
My dad loved to tell stories. It was through his reminiscing eyes that story came alive. His words transported me back to another time where I got know my grandparents. When he spoke of his brothers, I could see him reliving the good old days.
Five years before his passing, I called Dad daily and as usual he’d start telling his stories. (He had a lifetime of them.) But this time, I was armed with pen and paper. I asked questions—jotted down details. Then I began to write, editing till all hours of the night until I’d written 80 poems. I presented a spiral bound collection to him on his 80th birthday.
Though, the collection never felt quite complete—something was missing.
Just after Dad’s passing, I had a dream where I floated through a house crowded with people, relatives I had known, some only from old photographs. It appeared they were preparing for a fiesta, a party of some sort. They were anxiously waiting for someone. Then came the moment when the guest of honor arrived—and my dad waltzed through the front door.
When I awoke from my dream, I went straight to my computer and wrote the poem, “Réunion,” and a few more. The collection, which now feels complete, has 83 free-verse poems in all—one for each year of Dad’s life. For latin flavor, each poem is sprinkled with Spanglish. (Dad got to see four of the poems, including, “Honor Thy Father,” published in Cal State University, San Bernardino’s, “Pacific Review.”)
A few days before the angels took Dad, he looked at me and said, “No more stories.”
But somehow, I have a feeling that Dad is still telling his stories….
Five years before his passing, I called Dad daily and as usual he’d start telling his stories. (He had a lifetime of them.) But this time, I was armed with pen and paper. I asked questions—jotted down details. Then I began to write, editing till all hours of the night until I’d written 80 poems. I presented a spiral bound collection to him on his 80th birthday.
Though, the collection never felt quite complete—something was missing.
Just after Dad’s passing, I had a dream where I floated through a house crowded with people, relatives I had known, some only from old photographs. It appeared they were preparing for a fiesta, a party of some sort. They were anxiously waiting for someone. Then came the moment when the guest of honor arrived—and my dad waltzed through the front door.
When I awoke from my dream, I went straight to my computer and wrote the poem, “Réunion,” and a few more. The collection, which now feels complete, has 83 free-verse poems in all—one for each year of Dad’s life. For latin flavor, each poem is sprinkled with Spanglish. (Dad got to see four of the poems, including, “Honor Thy Father,” published in Cal State University, San Bernardino’s, “Pacific Review.”)
A few days before the angels took Dad, he looked at me and said, “No more stories.”
But somehow, I have a feeling that Dad is still telling his stories….
La Réunion
In my nightgown,
I enter a strange house,
thread through the crowded sala,
living room where lively chatter pops,
crackles like shoe-carpet static.
People smile and nod,
drift aside as I float into the kitchen
where mole, frijoles y arroz simmer on an old gas stove.
A young woman wearing a navy, polka-dot dress
flips tortillas on a comal.
She turns and gives a shy smile.
Why does she look so familiar?
I smile back, then float into a larger room.
A señora gets up from the couch.
Tia Juana? I ask.
My aunt gives me a big hug, abrasso.
I don’t understand. You’re dead. I was at your funeral.
I spin around and see mi Abuelito,
and my Grandma Lola!
Uncles, aunts, cousins,
some I’d only known from old photographs.
Then someone shouts, “He’s coming! ¡Ay viene!”
And la casita, the little happy house hums with
excitement as a young man with waves of black hair,
pencil-thin moustache, steps into the living room.
Dad? I call out.
The young woman from the kitchen flies at him.
I rub my eyes. Mama?
And the house swells con mucho allegria
now that Lupe has arrived,
no longer old and sick,
looking muy guapo,
handsome in his pinned-striped suit.
A slow song begins to play
and like young lovers, the couple slow dances,
feet barely touching the floor.
Just like old times, Dad laughs.
As I turn to leave, I remember my promise to Dad,
to pass on las historias de nuestra familia,
the stories of our family,
beginning con esta réunion.
