Silent Morning

I sat at the table with my hands wrapped around a warm coffee mug asking myself “how did we let this happen?” There’s truth to the old cliché, with a heavy heart, because that’s exactly how my heart felt that silent March morning. The house was empty. The kids had left for school and the stillness in the house magnified the rain that was beginning to fall. Sitting in the breakfast nook looking out into the blurred backyard, I felt an overwhelming sadness. The funny thing is that I couldn’t cry, or maybe I just didn’t allow myself; for once the flood gates opened I knew it would be impossible to stop. The sadness that besieged me that morning came with the realization that it had been exactly Ten years since I last saw my father.

Here is where you would expect me to explain how we had a blown up argument, a dramatic disagreement, or even something interesting like a horrible prison story, involving court cases, verdicts, and handcuffs. Sorry to disappoint, but nothing spectacular or interesting is responsible for our long separation. We simply lost track of time. Realizing that “we simply lost track of time” is the bulk of my sadness. How careless of us! What a horrible excuse for not being with someone who you love so much.

The last time I saw my dad was when I was leaving to meet up with my new husband, a Marine stationed in North Carolina. My mom and dad came to NYC from Puerto Rico to spend time with their new grandson and to see me off to my new home. I hugged them both as they wished me luck and we promised to visit “all the time”. I cried as I held on tightly, afraid to let go. However, my parents’ reassurance and continuous promises of many visits allowed me to finally climb into the waiting car. My dad leaned in and kissed his grandson goodbye. He then kissed me on the forehead and said “Te veo pronto negrita” (I will see you soon negrita – a term of endearment), and with that promise we parted.

My mother true to her words has visited us every year. My dad, well, he is going to hate that I am saying this, but my dad is afraid of flying. Must be old age, I joke because my dad was an avid traveler when we were growing up. However, things changed once he and my mom retired and moved to PR, he no longer felt safe in an airplane. Our separation is not all his fault, I could have gone to Puerto Rico to visit, but there was never enough money or the right time. Not to mention that since I last saw my father two more beautiful children were added to my busy life. Distance and life’s distractions were responsible for the ten years of our not seeing each other.

“Papi’s nena”, that is what my dad called me, a rendition of “daddy’s little girl”, in Spanish. My mom preferred to simply say “Herman’s tail” because I was always behind my dad. Having a dad who worked nights before it was “in” to be a stay-at-home dad was very special to me. While my mother worked at a t-shirt factory, my dad stood home to care for me so I wouldn’t be with “cualquiera” (just anyone). Our days together were always an adventure. Living in NYC allowed us many escapades; my favorite, free Wednesday at the Bronx Zoo, where we would walk around looking at all the animals. Well, Papi mostly walked, I was usually perched on his shoulders. Sitting by the seal exhibition sharing a homemade sandwich with my father was the highlight of our zoo visit. The white bread that housed the ham and cheese would stick to the roof of my mouth and although it annoyed me, Papi’s imitation of my chewing made me laugh. After our lunch my dad would jiggle his pocket change, whistle, and run to the cotton candy stand. I would giggle and run behind him yelling “get the pink one this time!” We would take the long walk home eating gobs of sugar.

Most mornings we would walk to Saint James Park where my dad would put me in a metal swing and push me from behind. “Higher Papi, higher,” I would scream. We sometimes bumped into neighbors who were also taking their little ones to the park for a morning of fun. I would run around the playground playing tag with the other kids as Papi sat on the bench with one eye on me and the other on El Vocero, the Spanish newspaper that circulated NYC. If he wasn’t reading the paper, he was standing in the middle of a bunch of grown-ups who were cracking up at his jokes.

Another favorite memory is going to Sal’s Pizzeria where on Friday’s two slices (of pizza), a large coke, and a bag of chips were only a $1.50. Fridays’ at Sal’s was our little secret. Sal was usually wiping the orange table in the corner, smiling as we strolled in, and in his loud Italian accent he would say “I was-a getting this-a ready jus for you-a two!” My dad would shake Sal’s hand and I would jump up and smack him a high five. There we would sit, at the orange table in the corner, not saying a word, watching the passer-bys as we ate our slices (of pizza). Although we had a late lunch we still brought home two large pies for the rest of the family to have for dinner. Papi and I would smile across the table at each other when my mom would smack my dad’s hand as he reached for another slice. “I thought you were watching your weight?” she would say. And that is why our afternoons at Sal’s were always kept a secret.

Being out and about with my dad was fun, but staying home was just as exciting. We would watch Tom and Jerry, eating bowls of cereal in the forbidden living room that was only for “visitas” (visitors). When I was really bored or if I was “una niῇa buena” (a good girl) Papi would use masking tape to make a hop scotch board for me to play on. Before “our” nap my dad would tell me elaborate stories, some of them Puerto Rican folktales and others from his wild imagination. When I was old enough to check out books from the public library, I was horrified that others had copied my dad’s stories and were trying to pass them off as their own. Juan, not Jack grew that big bean stalked in Morovis, Puerto Rico and Cinderella’s stepmother was Papi’s first grade teacher! A part of me, still today, believes that somewhere in Morovis a giant bean stalk lives.

That silent March morning memories of my happy childhood flooded my thoughts. They brought me comfort and happiness, but also sadness, sadness to think that my children have missed out on this wonderful grandfather that they have; sadness that I allowed ten years to go by without seeing my Papi.

I got up and threw out the coffee that had gone cold while I sat on the chair looking out at the hazy rain that covered the sliding glass doors. I leaned on the counter, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply to gather the courage to do what I knew had to be done. I slowly walked into my home office, turned on my computer, logged onto the internet and purchased a ticket for my father without anyone’s permission. I overlooked the details and with the click of a mouse pressed the “buy now” button. An overwhelming sense of relief filled me and I knew that I had done the right thing. I then picked up the phone, called my dad and said “Papi, pack your bags and say your rosary because in two weeks you are getting on a plane to come meet your grandchildren. You have three little ones who are ready for you to tell them about the bean stalk in Morovis that Juan climbed”.