Macabre Moments

Mi querido Chuy,

My dad, Manuel, and Sofia came down this weekend. I was excited to feel a sense of home—the type you feel with your siblings and parents—but knowing why they were here is a different story.

On Saturday, we didn’t do much but spend time at my place. The mood was slightly somber, but present company made it feel better. Your absence has hit us hard.

The day isn’t over yet, but today—today we spent the majority of our time emptying your house. It was tragically ironic to move everything out since all of us had a part in bringing everything in.

It was all so strangely painful to take your stuff. Sofia brought up a point about death; no one ever mentions the things that are left behind by the people who pass. Big things, little things—they are all things you left behind knowing you were going to come back to them, but didn’t.

A lot of the things we packed up I remember going with you to HomeGoods to buy “essentials only.” Your words, not mine. Steph came along and served as a personal home decor advisor. You kept saying, “I’m only here for essentials. Like a dish rack or pots and pans. Maybe towels.”

We started in the kitchen.

We packed up the dish rack you chose and the set of pots and pans you bought because we convinced you it was a steal (it really was); I hope that’s okay.

I took your frozen fruit you had for your smoothies; I hope that’s okay.

I took your opened bag of rice and the one-third full bag of pinto beans; I hope that’s okay.

La virgencita que tenías a un lado a la puerta belongs to me now; I hope that’s okay. It’s sitting on your altar.

We found your old California license plates for your Jeep. I took one of them; I hope that’s okay. I know you loved your car. I always think of the time when I had my own Jeep and how excited you were that we had the same type of car.

I hope it’s okay that we moved everything out bro. I know they were your things—little or big, they belonged to you, but now they belong to us.

Oh, I took the tv from the living room, I almost forgot to tell you; I hope that’s okay. I promise to watch America play from time to time.

I hope it’s okay that I took your couch, too, and the recliner. I’m sitting on your couch now, looking at the oversized picture of you on the altar. The candle burns bright.

I hope it’s okay that we cleared your house bro. You loved that house, worked so hard for it. We don’t know what to do and it hurts.

Before I left, I carved your initials and your birthday on your closet wall. It felt like the right thing to do. I did the same in the kitchen, except I wrote it with a permanent marker. It’ll be one of our live’s greatest Easter eggs.

I hope that’s okay.

I hope you’ve been okay.