Visit

She was so tiny. Not even five feet tall, pink poncho wrapped around her little frame. Her eyes filled with tears the minute she saw them. Arms reached out, pulling them into her warm embrace. Her nietos, her grandchildren. Here she was, for the first time, seeing my boys.

Gabe towered over her, already way past six feet. At nineteen, he was the spitting image of his father. His smile, his wavy hair, his brown eyes- almost identical to his dad except for the light complexion he received from me. Sammie had received a skin tone comparable to his father, but his long Grecian features were from some other time and place. He, at 13, was almost topping 5'9. Between the two of them, she looked so tiny, so fragile.

Throughout the visit, she couldn't stop reaching out and touching them lightly- on the hair, on the face, on the arm. Her eyes continuously filled with tears as she babbled on and on in Spanish. How much she loved them, how much he had loved them. I translated as best I could. The boys smiled at her and tried to console her in broken Spanish.

He had died three years ago. Only 44, a massive heart attack, unexpected and deadly. He had died around ten o'clock in the evening upon returning home from work. She had woken up with the noise of his struggle and found him dead.

He and I had divorced several years ago. A long battle with alcohol addiction that he could never shake no matter how hard he tried. Counseling, AA, church in Spanish and English helped him stay sober for months at a time but inevitably, he'd fall again. Alcohol turned my sweet, loving husband into an angry, raging monster. After ten years of the battle, I lost the war and filed.

He returned to the land of his birth, pushed there by several DUIs and immigration. He lived with her for the last years of his life. Calling when he was sober, telling us of his love and grief. He wept on the phone, begged forgiveness, and promised he was going to do better. He never stopped loving me or his precious boys.

Separated by countries, language, culture, and addiction, he did the best he could to keep a relationship with his sons. I did the best I could to foster that bond.

Now, standing in my kitchen, I looked over the scene. Tiny, frail, yet also strong and mighty, his mother gave a blessing over my children. I knew that their father was there with us in that time and space. I knew that his battle was over, and he had finally found his peace. Hopefully, with this meeting, his mother and I could also find the same.