Macabre Moments

When I walk through my front door, you’re there, perched on the altar I built for you, surrounded by candles, your necklace, hats, scarf, y la Virgen de Guadalupe. The green in your eyes is mesmerizingly light from the sun beaming through the windows. You’re smiling, the dimples digging into your cheeks.

As I walk toward the kitchen, you’re there, sitting on a high chair eating a big bowl of pozole. It’s Christmas. Manuel is sitting next to you. I’m watching the back of your nodding heads, both agreeing and enjoying the broth. I’m relieved. It was shrimp pozole and, in that moment, I never recalled watching you eat pozole before. Yet you slurp it down, peeling the shrimp with your hands and taking spoonfuls of broth at the same time.

We open presents. I’m sitting with Jack on my lap, and I turn to watch you take pictures of us. I feel slightly annoyed as I’m not dressed for the occasion, still in the clothes I slept with. I hurt my back Christmas morning and spent some odd hours in the emergency room. But, whatever. You send a flurry of pictures to one of many group chats we have. You’re smiling. Manuel is, too.

After presents and pictures and pozole, we sit on the high chairs, talking nonsense and randomness. I’m holding Jack on the counter, and click! Steph takes a picture of us four; I’m holding Jack as I look in your direction, Manuel in the middle, and you’re looking toward me. At some point, we switch, or maybe the other way around. This time I take a picture of you holding Jack, and Manuel is next to you entertaining his nephew.

When I’m in the kitchen looking into the living room, you’re there sitting on my couch. You have Jack on your lap, entertaining him. The television is on, but no one is watching. I’m watching you with him, admiring the careful, loving way you hold him. I take a picture. You turn to me and smile before turning back to your uncle duties.

Sometimes you’re there on the couch half-sprawled on your back. You’re not doing anything, just sitting, particularly chillin’. Manuel is sitting next to you looking for a game to watch, or a movie he knows you wouldn’t mind watching. I’m watching you guys from the kitchen.

As I move to the couch, I see you standing around the kitchen. Sometimes you’re washing your hands, other times you’re just sitting on the high chairs talking to me from there, or just on your phone. I picture you there with Jack as you hold him, too. He’s asleep in your arms.

I can’t help but picture more than just one of you.

When I’m in Jack’s room, you’re there, helping me rebuild his crib. You’re smiling and laughing. Mostly laughing. I’m looking up at you asking for some kind of help, and I’m watching you give me a look. It’s a what-do-you-need-me-to-do look, and you’re laughing. You do it on purpose. When I’m in there changing his diaper, I hear the soft echo of your laugh bounce off the crib, the walls, the door, and I picture you laughing. I glance at Jack’s closet, eyeing your two América jerseys I grabbed from your closet. They’re hanging with Jack’s clothes, hoping he wears them when he fits into them.

Every time I look at the crib, you’re there holding the baby mattress in place so I can screw in the frame and the base. You’re bending over, complaining, not seriously, but you’re cracking jokes.

When we’re in the pool, you’re there watching everyone. I know because I’m watching you. Jack is two weeks old and everyone is here. We’re in the pool. I’m on the left side of the pool talking to Cubby. You’re on the right. I know because I feel you staring at me. I turn. I look at you. You have a simple smirk on your face, it’s not a complete smile, but it’s there. Your eyes are smiling, too. I don’t know what it is, but I feel incredibly loved by you in this moment.

When I look to the house, you’re standing in the backyard patio. It’s New Year’s. You walk out to the backyard with a brown sweater and I immediately think Arizona winters don’t warrant sweaters. You look good in it, though. I hear you laugh and talk with Manuel and Danny. You hand me a beer, and keep checking up on me since I’m grilling. You’re picking at the food.

When I’m out front, you’re there with my dad and Manuel and Steph. All of you are watching me put outdoor lights high up on the house and Manuel is holding the ladder for just-in-case scenarios. Steph has Jack on the stroller, and you take the stroller. You take Jack for a walk. I take a picture from afar. It’s a sweet moment.

After I’m done I apologize for not getting around to hanging with you. You pat my shoulder, I feel the heaviness, the love as you rub your hand across and tell me it’s cool. You say, “I was with Jack, I’m not tripping.”

When I arrive to my house and drive up the driveway, you’re there with my dad and Manuel. My dad is scraping the epoxy paint from the garage floor from the previous owners’ bad decision. You look at my dad. I look at you looking at him, and then you turn to me, thinking you felt me looking. We nod at each other.

I have been at this house for close to a year now; five months when you were taken from us. I see you everywhere I go, hear you, and feel you. In five months you left small parts of yourself here, tiny pieces I can feel. If I stare at a particular part of the house, I can see the memory, replay that day’s events.

And then I think that all of these memories—these traces I have of you—don’t compare to the ones waiting at my parents’ house. That’s twenty-some years to my months.

Even though I’m not there, I can see you just as clear, too. I know Manuel sees you by the shed, chillin’, smoking and talking shit. The kids can probably see you walk by their room, or hear you yell across the house. I know my mom can see you in the kitchen, making a quesadilla, or putting tamales on the stove. And I can picture my dad looking at you while you watch a soccer game on the television screen, screaming at a ref’s call ó un golazo de el América. Mama can probably see you laying in bed as she creeps in the room to pick up dirty clothes, whispering at you to go back to sleep. I know this because I saw it over and over when I was there.

I can hear your laugh carrying across the house. I can feel the heaviness in your footsteps as they rock the portraits hanging on the hallway wall.

Most of all, I can feel you there.

I miss you.