Month: February 2017

You can probably imagine my reaction as a 9-year-old from Winston-Salem, N.C. after seeing Miami Beach for the first time in 1947. My parents brought my younger brother and me down from North Carolina to escape a polio epidemic running through the South that summer. Miami Beach was the first big city I had ever seen. I was mesmerized.

Compared to life where we grew up, the possibilities in South Florida seemed limitless. Back then in Winston-Salem, it was impossible to avoid the smell of freshly harvested tobacco. There was still Jewish segregation and some anti-Semitism. Our family was one of 50-60 Jewish families in Winston-Salem and our contemporary friends were spread out across the South. Many of my friends lived in other towns in North Carolina, Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia. Our world definitely felt a bit isolated.

The Reform Temple in Winston-Salem was basically our home. Aside from a few movie theaters, Aleph Zadik Aleph (a Jewish youth fraternity with chapters all over the country) was the only true local hangout for us growing up. I really had never seen anything like Miami Beach. It was mostly desegregated for Jews by 1947, except for Bal Harbour. That unforgettable smell of fresh tobacco in the air was gone. Once our family checked into the rooms we reserved at The Georgian Hotel on Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue, I took one look out of the window at the ocean and knew that one day I would make the Miami Beach area my home.

The Georgian was at the heart of everything we did for fun that summer. It was a short distance to some of the Beach’s legendary eateries: the Crossroads, DuBrow’s Cafeteria, Huey’s Cathay House, Wolfie’s, Joe Hart’s Pickin’ Chicken and the Noshery at the Saxony Hotel. Between the hotel pool, the beach, miniature golf next door, and breakfast at the Liggett’s Drug Store counter, what’s not to like for a 9-year-old? I can still taste the fried chicken from Joe Hart’s and the corned beef sandwiches from DuBrow’s, sliced thin and piled high for a dollar.

My family continued to visit Miami Beach during the summers before finally moving full-time in August 1954, when I was in high school. Much to my dismay, I had to go back and stay with my brother in Winston-Salem to complete high school. I skipped a grade, but Miami Beach Senior High did not recognize that year and would have required me to redo it.

I’ll never forget what happened in 1954 during our first few days as official Miami Beach residents. We went to see the house my parents had rented in Bay Harbor Islands, when two gentlemen stopped to see my father about urgent business they needed to discuss.

They were sent by Rabbi Leon Kronish, the legendary rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom. Rabbi Kronish had received a tip from our rabbi in Winston-Salem that our family was moving to Miami Beach and that Temple Beth Sholom should recruit us to be members. Rabbi Kronish apparently wasted no time and, we later learned, sent two of his best to recruit us for their congregation. The two gentlemen were Judge Harry Arthur Greenberg and Howard Miller, one of the initial developers of Cooper City. I guess temple membership recruitment was serious business back then.

My family did join Temple Beth Sholom, and my father quickly became one of the leaders in the congregation, a role he proudly held until he passed away in 1973. My father was always volunteering and giving back. He was a community leader in North Carolina and afterward in Miami Beach.

Naturally, I looked up to him and wanted to follow in his footsteps. After college graduation in 1959, my military obligation was fulfilled as a member of the Florida National Guard outpost in Hollywood, and later in the U.S. Army Reserves across from the University of Miami. In March 1960, I landed my first (and only) job and also enrolled in the University of Miami graduate school for classes to prepare for the CPA exam. I was living in Surfside at the time, and my classes were at night. Getting around back then wasn’t nearly as easy as it is now. The interstate had yet to be built, so I had to take the Broad Causeway or the Venetian Causeway to Biscayne Boulevard, taking that all the way to campus in Coral Gables.

Even though there were about 30% fewer cars on the road than we have today, that was still a huge drive. I stayed busy by volunteering as a firefighter with the Surfside Fire Department. Aside from the chief and captain, , who trained us well, the rest of the Surfside Fire Department was composed of volunteers. We had a single truck. They needed us, but I can really only recall one time when there was an actual fire.

I eventually met my current wife Nancy in the late 1970s and would settle with her in Hollywood. She has been a permanent fixture by my side in the community, involved with Temple Solel, Jewish Adoption & Family Care Options (JAFCO), Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, David Posnack Jewish Community Center, and our current involvement with Miami Jewish Health Systems, where I serve as chairman of the board of directors. This August will mark my 60th year as a full-time South Florida resident, though it all began with that first summer vacation in 1947.

Thank you Miami Beach, for making all the dreams of a wide-eyed 9-year-old from Winston-Salem come true.

Just like so many other Cuban-Americans, we came to Miami to escape the ravages of the Communist regime that had taken over our island-nation.

We were lucky enough to still be able to come on a regularly scheduled Pan Am flight. My parents obtained their visas to leave Cuba in November 1961 and were forced to leave their two children behind.

Those were torturous weeks waiting to see if we were ever going to see our parents again. However, God was looking over us and my brother and I took our first-ever airplane ride on December 1, 1961, from Havana, Cuba, to Miami, Florida.

I remember looking out the window and, as we prepared to land, I saw my mother, father and cousins standing on a terrace on the roof of the airport. Little did I know then that this terrace would be one of the places where we would frequently spend Sunday afternoons – it was free entertainment!

Since we were only able to bring some clothes and had no money whatsoever, our family discovered all the places that provided diversion for my brother, my cousins, and me for free. So we frequently went to the beach (Crandon Park or South Beach), Lincoln Road, the airport, Morningside Park, and Bayfront Park. All these places still exist today, but in a very different way.

South Beach had a dog track right by where Government Cut is and there was no pier. There were rocks that all the kids would climb on and jump from into the water. Lincoln Road was similar to today, but it did not have all the high-end restaurants and it was not as crowded.

There were simple shops, a Carvel Ice Cream shop and a little tram that would take you from one end of Lincoln Road to the other for, I think, 10 cents.

There was no Bayside Marketplace at Bayfront Park – actually, it was really just a big stretch of grass along the Bay. The airport was tiny and you would still have to walk to the tarmac to get on and off planes. The rooftop terrace was very nice to spend time hearing the roar of planes taking off.

Our family settled in what is now called Wynwood. I really do not know if that area had a name then, but I do not think so. We referred to the general area as “el Norwes” (the Northwest). The building that we lived in is actually still there, but the area has changed dramatically.

There was no Miami skyline to be seen and Midtown was not even a thought in anyone’s mind. In fact, having come from Havana, a bustling city with a lot of nightlife and bright neon signs, Miami seemed like a sleepy town then and reminded me more of the town where I was born, rural Moron, Camaguey.

Somehow, it seemed that half of Moron settled within the same block of NW 32 Street. By 1967, when we bought our first house and moved to Hialeah, the entire two blocks between Miami Avenue and NW 2 Avenue seemed to be inhabited by “Moroñeros.”

It was a great childhood there. Everyone knew everyone, we rode our bikes freely without the concerns that seem to worry every parent today, we played “hide-and-seek” throughout the entire block with dozens of kids, and on rainy days we would play Monopoly.

There was no Publix or Dadeland Mall. The only large supermarket in the area was a place called Shell near NW 54 St. We bought our groceries at “Paul’s Grocery Store” on the corner of Miami Avenue and 29th Street and took the bus for a few stops to shop downtown at places like Richards, Kress, Lerner’s, Burdine’s, and McCrory’s. My mother and I loved to have corn dogs at the McCrory’s luncheonette.

I went to Buena Vista Elementary School where I was first called a “spick.” I can still remember the boy’s name: Juan (!). He was taken a little aback by my non-reaction – I had no idea what it meant. I asked him, he explained it to me, and we became good friends. Still not sure what a boy named Juan was doing calling me a spick, though! Fortunately, I never heard the term (nor any other derogatory name) directed at me again.

Later, I went to Miami Edison Junior High, which was bulldozed out of existence several years ago. My brother graduated from Miami Edison Senior High, which was where Edison Middle sits now. We loved going to the Orange Bowl for the Red Raiders games – especially when we played our main rivals – the Stingarees from Miami High.

My father was a very resourceful, intelligent, and ambitious man. Within a couple of months of arriving in this great country, he owned his first gas station – on NW 7th Avenue near 50 Street.

The pumps were manned at the time – no self-service then. He provided full service and automotive repair. My mother pumped gas, checked the oil, radiators, put air in the tires, and cleaned the car windows.

After school and during summers, my brother also worked at the station. I always wanted to work there, but my father would not let me – I was a girl and this was well before feminism and the time, like now, when everyone pumps their own gas.

Within a short time, my father owned several gas stations throughout Miami and we saved enough to buy a house in Hialeah. Hialeah had not yet become the Cuban and Latin-American haven it is today. We were actually only the second Latin family on our block in 1967.

My mother, who had never worked a day in her life before coming here, was also incredibly hard-working. Initially, she worked the night-shift at a shoe factory nearby. Her shift started at 11 P.M. and ended at 7 A.M. She would arrive home just in time to get us kids ready for school. She would rest while we were in school, but also clean the house and get dinner ready. Once we were tucked into bed, she would go to work.

Eventually, she was able to transfer to the day-shift. Then she went to school in the evenings to learn to speak English and become a beautician. She received a beautician’s license and opened up her own beauty shop on Collins Avenue and 23 Street.

Both my parents accomplished this when they were already in their forties and fifties, in a new country whose language and culture was totally foreign to them. Hardly anyone spoke Spanish then. Both of their children went to college and received advanced degrees – mainly, I believe, as a result of our parents’ example and expectations.

Although I went away to school and have traveled extensively, Miami remains home and will always be. This is where I grew up, where my parents brought us seeking to raise their children in a free land where opportunity is available for all.

I appreciate all that Miami has given us and I try to give back whenever I am able. Coincidentally, a few years ago I moved to the Morningside area, right down the street from the old park that I used to frequent as a kid. It is still beautiful!

I remember vividly the days that led to my coming to Miami from Cuba. I was only 9 years old and turmoil, to say the least, was at hand. We were leaving my country for a short period of time. No one in my family thought it was forever. But even as a goodbye, it felt very sad.

My mother told me we would be staying in Miami for a long vacation, but I knew better. I overheard a conversation between my mother and father. They were afraid that Fidel Castro was installing a communist regime and that they would lose custody of the children to the state and the ability for us to practice our faith.

At that time, I couldn’t understand how they would make the ultimate sacrifice of leaving everything behind for my little brother and me. My father, who was in his 30s, already had a very successful job and future in an American company, and was finishing his studies at La Universidad de La Habana as an electrical engineer. My mother had a doctorate in philosophy, also from the same university. She was working as a teacher.

In those days, they seized all American businesses, and Mr. Skilton, my dad’s boss, and his family were expelled from the country. It was very sad for me. In their home, I had learned many American values and, because of the Skiltons, I celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving. The regime asked my dad to help in the take-over of this business. My dad replied he wasn’t a thief. He had to leave the country before us.

On November 6, 1960, my mom, my 4-year-old brother Freddie, and I left Cuba for Miami. They put us in the “fish bowl,” a glass room where you stayed for hours, fearing your name would be called to be searched. From my seat, through the glass, I could see my grandparents trying to hold their tears so that we would not see them cry. What I didn’t know at that moment is that I would never see my paternal grandparents again. Still today, that sad memory touches my heart when I’m sitting in any enclosed glass room. I held my mother’s hand as the Pan American flight left Havana late that afternoon. People were crying; others feared the plane would go back to Cuba and screamed to the pilot not to return. You could hear the sobbing throughout the hour that the flight lasted.

The Miami International Airport was in the same place as it is today, but back then it was a small building with a terrace. We all came down the ladder and some kissed the ground. Before we went into U.S. Customs, in a moment of emotion, we sang the Cuban National Anthem. Then I saw my dad on the terrace waving at me, and I knew at that moment, that Cuba will always be in my soul but that Miami was home.

A few days later, I started school at Kensington Park Elementary. I knew very little English. My classmates were so friendly, but I only had one friend who could communicate with me, a Cuban boy named Ricky. We were the only two Cubans in the class. Children learn fast, and weeks later, I could say the words to “America the Beautiful” and the Pledge of Allegiance.

Every Saturday, at 8 in the morning, I had religious education classes at Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic Church. It was too early for me, but my father would make me go, regardless of my protests. After all, that was one of the main reasons we had left Cuba — so that we could practice our faith in freedom.

Soon, all my friends and their parents started arriving from Cuba. We lived in the northwest section of Miami, near the dog track. We went almost every day to the airport to give support to those in our same situation who were just arriving. Everyone was family and we helped each other.

Christmas was an emotional time. The year before, I had received so many gifts – twice — some from Santa Claus and others for Three Kings Day. But most important, my grandparents were there. This year, my young parents were alone and could not afford too much since my dad did not have a job. Days before Christmas, we received an invitation for a Christmas party for Cuban children at the Gesu Church in downtown. Included was a card for a special gift, and I still remember how nice it felt, and the excitement of a child who had nothing. It also meant a lot to my parents.

On Sundays, were outings to Miami Beach, Lincoln Road and the parks, and we would take picnics. Once, we tried to sneak into Parrot Jungle but were told you had to be 5 to go in free. So the picnic was outside.

Months later, we had to leave and go to Puerto Rico to find a job for my dad. In all the years we lived in Puerto Rico, we came to Miami every year. The Magic City is the place where most Cubans want to be – for friends and family, Cuban food and pastelitos. But the love of America, the generosity of its people, and the opportunities given to us, made us Cuban Americans.

More than 40 years ago, in 1971, a small restaurant called Versailles came to be. Every time we arrived from Puerto Rico, my dad would take us from the airport to Versailles. Later, when I moved back, my friends and I would always go after the parties for café con leche. I sat there with my husband, then my boyfriend, for long conversations. I pushed my babies’ carriages through the tables, and when my children were teenagers, I took them for lunch and advice. Today, Versailles is the first place to stop when they come from college or from a long trip. Versailles is part of our Cuban culture in Miami.

In the ‘70s, my parents bought an apartment in Key Biscayne, which we call El Cayo. It was the place where I met my husband. We married 35 years ago and have three children. Today, I live in the Grove, and see bikers every day riding the same trails I used to ride to Matheson Hammock. And still my Cuban-American soul finds Miami is my home.

I was born in Georgetown, Guyana, which is the only English-speaking country in South America.

When I was 6 years old, my parents migrated to Toronto. I started school in Canada, and it was my second-grade teacher who was influential in my love of education at an early age.

You see, I had an accent when I spoke English since I am from Guyana and I did not want the other kids to make fun of me. So I kept quiet because I was intimidated to engage with other students and felt out of place.

My teacher spoke to my parents and let them know that unless I got with the program I was going to be left behind and I was going to repeat the school year. So she suggested that I attend summer school to improve my deficiencies. To this day, I am thankful to this teacher from Jamaica who was able to see through my shyness and understand what I was going through.

Memories like those have also helped me become the person I am today. I remember that my love for police work came from that tall police officer who visited my third-grade classroom for career day. His uniform and command presence stood out the most and left a visual imprint.

I also had a little more push since we lived close to the police academy and every day when I got home from school, I would see the recruits exercising and practicing. I knew that when I grew up I wanted to be a police officer who would be able to help others.

In 1985, I came to Miami with my family, and it was here that I started my public service career. One year after graduating from Miami Southridge Senior High School, I enlisted in the U.S. Army and spent three years as an infantry soldier. I then was hired by the State of Florida as a correctional officer at South Florida Reception Center and I was subsequently hired by Miami-Dade Schools Police Department as a police officer.

Education has always been an emphasis in my life, and I graduated from Florida International University with a bachelor’s of science and from the University of Cincinnati with a master’s of science. I am also a graduate of the prestigious University of Louisville, Southern Police Institute Command Officers Development Course.

I have been blessed to be able to work and train with multiple agencies responding to critical incidents and have offered countless workshops in the area on youth violence, gang awareness, school safety, weapons of mass destruction, emergency management and tactical training. I also teach for the University of Phoenix and FIU.

Fifteen years ago, I worked with Miami-Dade Schools Police. I was working there in the position of captain when the City of Miami Police Department offered me a position as police major to lead and manage the Miami Police College and certainly this was something I could not refuse. I saw this as an opportunity to grow and learn.

Then I saw the chance of rejoining the Miami-Dade Schools Police Department as the chief. I felt that this was an opportunity I could not pass up and also would finalize my law enforcement career and personal mission. I was working for City of Miami Police Department when Superintendent Alberto M. Carvalho offered me a chance to lead the police department for the fourth-largest educational district in the United States.

The Miami-Dade Schools Police Department is currently the seventh-largest law enforcement agency in Miami-Dade County with an authorized strength of 180 sworn personnel. One of the main objectives of the department is to provide a safe learning environment that promotes good health and is free from violence, weapons, hazards, vandalism and substance abuse.

The Miami-Dade Schools Police Department not only deals with incidents of a criminal nature, but the officers strive to be positive role models for the students and prove there is an alternative to crime or violence. The officers play an active role in the prevention of crime on our campuses.

After Hurricane Andrew, I ended up in Broward County with my wife and son. All these years I have been working in law enforcement, my wife has been the rock that has held our family together. She has made sure that my son was properly prepared for school along with participating in social and sporting activities.

My son just recently graduated from FIU with a bachelor’s in public administration and he has chosen to pursue the career as a law enforcement officer. This is a noble calling since it takes a special person to take on these responsibilities in today’s society.

When I left Guyana with my parents and sister, I never imagined I would be where I am today. My parents had the strength to migrate from not just one country but two countries. The opportunity to swear in those new officers made me realize how lucky my family and I are.

We are lucky to live, work, and recreate in a beautiful city with people from many different cultures, which makes me realize that our differences can be the glue that holds us together.

This endeavor to help others has led me to more than 24 years of public service at the federal, state, municipal and county government levels. I can truly tell everyone that great things are made in America, and this is definitely the land of opportunity. For if it was not for the emphasis on education and good family values, I could not be where I am today.

My parents sold their business in Washington, D.C. in 1951 and we came to Miami Beach for vacation. After a few weeks, they informed me they were not going back and this would be our new home.

My dad bought a dry-cleaning/tailor shop on 15th Street off Washington Avenue, one block from a dreary street named Española Way, which is now a busy center of activity. I enrolled in the University of Miami where the tuition was $500 a year.

I got to UM by riding three buses: Miami Beach to downtown Miami behind Burdines; then Miami bus to the old Gables bus terminal; and finally Gables terminal to the university. Many classes were held on the old campus in a drab building with wooden floors and others were on the main campus, held in former army barracks called the “shacks.”

Attendance at UM football games at the Orange Bowl was a popular weekend event, as were shows at the Ring Theatre. I still have the programs from shows during my days there, including the one where Jerry Herman played a nymph. Fraternities had a yearly show competition but after Jerry Herman’s frat won so many times, they combined and presented a big show in Dade County Auditorium, written byHerman.

I had a part-time job at Lee’s Health Bar, located on Collins Avenue, next door to Wolfie’s. It was known for exotic fruit drinks and ice cream creations.

Social life was good because we were so close to the beach. Everyone met at the 15th Street beach on weekends and also at dances at Temple Emanu-El.

Hoffman’s Cafeteria on Collins Avenue was a meeting place for the senior citizens. My parents became involved in the community and joined a Jewish center, which had a building on Fifth Street. My dad became an “actor” there and participated in many shows. He also joined a group of musicians and singers who met on the grassy area in front of the beach.

We bought a house and moved to the Shenandoah area in the city of Miami. The memories of that location bring to mind Studio M, a small theater; the Miracle Theatre in Coral Gables; J. Baldi’s Hair Salon, where we waited for appointments; shopping on Miracle Mile and eating at Cookies. Tyler’s in Miami Springs had the best cream pies and special occasions were celebrated at King Arthur’s Court, also in Miami Springs, or The Country Store in Coconut Grove. We shopped downtown at Burdines with a lunch treat at their tea room.

After graduating from the university, I got a job teaching in Coconut Grove Elementary, where the principal was Oliver Hoover. The Grove was a small, quaint area with the bank and drugstore across from the school. Midway through the year, my students and I were moved to a newly built school off Red Road and we voted to name it after a Miami pioneer, David Fairchild, and our principal was Rod Nowakowski.

I got married in 1956 and took a year off from teaching to get my master’s degree at the university. I worked in the Merrick Building tower, setting up a curriculum library for School of Education students. We rented an apartment and lived a block from the Coliseum in Coral Gables which, over the years, became an ice skating rink, a bowling alley, and now the site of an apartment complex and Publix supermarket.

My husband, an architect, worked on many of the Miami Beach hotels, and his office was on Lincoln Road. We attended openings at the Algiers, Carillon, the Deauville, DiLido and others.

In 1960, we moved to North Miami where my three children grew up. Special treats for them were appearing on the children’s TV shows, Skipper Chuck and Banjo Billy. Many birthday parties were held at Crandon Park, with the train ride and a visit to the zoo. When they got older, they learned to drive in the big empty parking lot at Levitz furniture store. My children, now in their 40s and 50s, were all born in Miami. They live in Boston, North Carolina and California.

Our next move was to East Kendall, now called Pinecrest. Miami has always been a great place to live, except on Aug. 24, 1992, when Hurricane Andrew came to visit.

We had been through a number of minor storms but this was “the big one.” Homes all around us were destroyed, schools were closed, and there was no water (we had a well, but no electricity to make the pump work so we bathed outdoors with the neighbor’s garden hose).

The Miami Herald ran notices with missing persons’ names, places to bring pets, a department store listing the zip codes of the residences that could hold off paying bills without accruing interest, and banks that were open, even on Saturday and Sunday. There were special places you could cash checks, and big businesses asked employees to call and say they were OK and were offering food, lodging and help. All traffic lights were out and citizens stood at busy intersections directing traffic. The biggest shock was driving five miles north of my home and everything was normal with no sign of how the people in the southern end of town were suffering.

After 35 years of teaching, I retired in 1996. My next venture was as a docent at the Lowe Art Museum and I also joined IRP (Institute for Retired People) to explore new classes.

IRP has evolved into the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, under the auspices of the University of Miami School of Continuing Education. Hundreds of seniors attend wonderful classes that are devoted to keeping us young, smart and having fun.

One sunny, mid-week afternoon, I arrived at home to family cars parked in the front yard. I did not have to dig for the house key in my bookbag. My father stood in front of the door as if shielding me from something.

As I entered the house, I heard a woman crying. Family members surrounded the crying woman whom I soon realized was my mother. It was the first time I saw her cry as a result of something I didn’t do. I did not have a broken arm or a D on my report card. On that afternoon, my mother had lost her father.

After I kissed her and said nothing, I went to my room and watched MTV when videos were all the rage. I did not understand what had happened. Death was one of those things I heard tossed around in other people’s conversations. I identified death with Friday the 13th movies and drug dealers on the news.

My whole life I had taken pride in the fact that all of my grandparents were alive and well. I wore that on my sleeve and carried it around as if I had won a trophy. Abuelo was not sitting in a Cuban jail cell, waiting in a ration line, and eating other people’s household pets. Abuelo was in Miami, living in a condo, shopping at Publix and eating steak. Now, Abuelo was suddenly gone, from complications related to diabetes, and there was nothing doctors, my family or I could do about it. Life threw us this curve ball and we had to catch it.

It was my first funeral and the only thing I looked forward to was to practice making my own tie. When I arrived at the funeral home, everyone was already there. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and Cuban coffee. Strangers offered their condolences, hugs and spearmint gum. All I could do was smile and walk away.

As I went toward the room, my grandmother sat crying in a chair next to the casket. Beautiful flowers were scattered near her. The reds, whites, yellows, and greens clashed with her black dress. She was surrounded by more strangers with some hovering over her like more of those loser contestants. The rest of them stood in line waiting their turn to comfort her. I thought all the faces were probably the same to her. Her hands always touched their elbows and her tissue almost always fell on the floor.

I went up to my grandmother, kissed her cheek and walked away through the lobby, the glass doors, the parking lot, and into a cafeteria. As I ordered a pastelito and Materva, I saw some of the strangers from the funeral. They didn’t seem so strange anymore. Their faces and voices sounded familiar. The talk of old Cuba, the exile community, Miami, Hialeah, and my family comforted me. Those were things I had heard before and things my Abuelo used to say.

After spending the night at the funeral home, I woke to find the world still around me. Everyone was still talking and whispering comforts in the air like shooting the breeze over a game of dominos. No one slept. They probably feared they would miss out on one of my grandmother’s wails or so-and-so’s daughter or son and how they are still not married.

At that moment, the priest called everyone to pray the rosary. When the prayer was over, I walked outside with my parents, grandmother and brother to look for the limo. In the corner of the parking lot, the limo rested beneath the shade of one of those trees filled with moon-shaped green seeds. I remembered having block fights with those same seeds and that after one of the fights, I walked back home to find my grandparents waiting in the driveway with packages in their arms and smiles on their faces.

Abuelo said in broken English, “Who’s going to pick up the seeds?”

After the priest did what priests do and said what priests say, the cemetery workers rolled Abuelo’s casket to the rear of the mausoleum. My family and I were walking on a back street with a chain-link fence dividing the mausoleum and some kind of factory. The unkempt hedges sheltered some litter scattered close to the fence. The workers opened the side of the building and I caught a glimpse of where Abuelo was going to be. It looked like dusty concrete shelves. Objects were scattered like the litter next to the chain-link fence. I comforted myself by thinking it was better than being buried in just another hole in the ground with other people’s loved ones walking all over him. At least Abuelo had chosen this place for himself.

That night, I found myself sleeping next to my grandmother. It was dark and I realized that I really did not want to be next to her. I started to cry because I knew this is where I had to sleep tonight. My grandmother woke up and as she wiped the tears off my face, she told me, “No lo puedo creer. El gordo no esta aqui.”

She couldn’t believe her fat man was not there with her. I felt guilty for sleeping in his spot and for reminding her that she would not sleep with Abuelo again. As she reassured me that everything was going to be fine, I reached over and touched her face. As the wind and rain howled outside the window, I rubbed her dry face, rolled over and went to sleep.