“Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.”

~Mark Twain

Yesterday we returned to my grandfather’s farewell.  Today, I’d like to visit some words, written a while before my grandfather passed.

During the last few years of Papí’s life, I drove to visit him every Saturday.  In the final month, it was a hospital bed where he lay, struggling for breath.  At the time, I was writing simple rhymes designed for children.  I’d hold Papi’s hand and read stories from a thin red binder; the same notebook I gave to my father for Father’s Day when I first told him I was writing.

Every week, Papí would lift his head from the sheets as I entered the room.

“Are you published yet?” he’d ask.

“No, Papí,” I’d say.  “Not yet.”

Thankfully, on the weekend before his last, I said, “Guess what, Papí?  I have a publisher, and they want to publish everything.”

Besides the one about Santa, that might be the only lie I’ve ever felt comfortable with.  It’s certainly the only one I’ve ever been proud of.

At his eulogy, this was the song I sang:

Jose Ramos, Daddy, Papí.  A man impossible to copy,
with 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 unbelievably funny.  He valued fellowship far over money.
He always looked forward, without regret, and never abandoned a window to bet.
He meant so much to me in his immovable place.  Sometimes I look in the mirror and still see his face.

Ever since the time I was small, a sassy little know it all,
he and Honey guided me, to the best that I could be.
Every weekend of my youth, with conduct perhaps a little uncouth,
they took me in and they taught me well.  But more than just to speak and spell.
They taught 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 them a hand, or maybe an ear to understand.

The most significant lesson that I learned, a powerful example burned
(in my mind like I was branded), they both taught me single handed
how to treat my only other – as though the world could hold no other
one who could ever hope to 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 little kid, I know exactly how much 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 that I was mature, walking real tall and talking real 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

If you enjoyed these words, please subscribe (for free) by RSS or Email.  I tweet here, and Stumble here.  Thanks.

Raise your hand if you’re doing too many things at once.  I’m talking about it at Eric’s today.  Check it out.