Today is an anniversary. Last June 22 was a Father’s Day I will never forget.
Though I had been writing a few months already, it was a secret known only to the three members of my household and my Papí. During the last year of his life, my grandfather lay in bed quietly eating candy by the handful and impatiently waiting to join his Honey, recently passed after seventy-four years by his side.
Every Saturday during those last two years I would drive to his house to spend some time with him, never knowing for certain if that drive would be the last. Papí was the first person I told I was writing both because I didn’t want to miss the chance to tell him and because my grandfather delighted in keeping a secret.
During his final two months, I would bring my binder of children’s stories to read out loud, turning pages with one hand while holding his in the other. Every week as I entered the room, his wrinkles would part and his eyes would brighten. He would proudly announce that he hadn’t told a soul and then ask if I had found a publisher.
Of course I had not. I was writing simple children’s rhymes and was a wide world away from publishing. Yet on the day before Father’s Day last year, I told him that yes, I had found a publisher and my work would likely see print by the end of the year.
The next day, I met with my dad for breakfast where I handed him a binder with all my stories and shared the rough draft of the novel I’d written. It was my official coming out – a new door was open. Saying the words out loud to someone besides my Papí had rendered them to reality.
I was a writer.
Just as morning fell into afternoon, I got a call from my mother. The doctors were saying Papí probably wouldn’t make it through the night. Less than an hour passed before the phone rang again, and I knew before I answered that at 99 years old, the most remarkable life I had ever known would never draw another breath.
The next week was his funeral. Below you will find a handful of the words I recited, written in the same rhythm as so many of the stories I read to him during his few final weeks. Papí wasn’t sad to go. Every week he told me he was ready and often wondered why it was taking so long. I did not grieve for the passing of a life well lived, but I still miss my Papí every day.
Jose Ramos, Daddy, Papí. A man impossible to copy.
He had a one and only inclination to live his life with such elation,
joy and mischief, mirth, and cheer; too much for one century, minus a year.
Papí was gentle, and impossibly funny. He valued his friendships far above money.
He always looked forward and without regret. He never walked away from a window to bet.
He meant so much to me in his immovable place. I can look in the mirror and stare at his face.
Ever since that time when I was small – a sassy little know it all -
he and my Honey guided me, to the best that I could be.
Every weekend of my youth, with conduct ungrateful and a little uncouth,
they took me in and taught me well. But more than simply to speak and to spell.
They taught me other messages, a lot more essential, like meeting and making my moral potential.
They trained me not to cheat or lie, to never quit and always try,
to speak my mind and wait my turn, to show compassion and concern,
to all my neighbors, lend out a hand or maybe an ear to understand.
The best from all these lessons learned, a powerful example burned
(in my mind like it was branded), they both taught me single handed
how to treat my only other – as though the world could hold no other
soul who could ever compare, no matter who and no matter where.
They loved each other without doubt, without dearth, and without drought.
Even though I was only a kid, I know exactly the good that it did.
It showed me what to want from life, then led me toward my perfect wife.
If I could ever travel back, take the years and flip the stack,
I’d look them in their younger eyes and thank them true for being wise
and providing me a perfect picture to follow like a written scripture.
I grew up, and added years, a bigger nose and longer ears.
By the time I was mature, walking tall and talking sure.
I saw Papí from a different position, with what I’d already seen plus another addition.
It’s not the years in our life but the life in our years, the gray in our hair and the salt in our tears.
The smiles we carry and people we meet, the flavors of life from sour to sweet.
Papi’s a man who met wisdom with age, by living his life like he lived it on stage.
I’ll never forget him if I’m a hundred and five. In my heart I will always keep Papi alive.
Writer Dad
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