The Alonsos in 1994: From left, the author's sister Andrea, Papi, and brother Augusto in Omaha, Nebraska.
The strum of a certain guitar chord, the smell of cigars, the sound of a wine cork — so much still keeps you alive, as if you are waiting for me to find you.
It’s been 20 years, Papi. A tragic yesterday, yet long enough that when I turn to see you at the cemetery I take the wrong road. You’re slipping or perhaps it’s me. “Jesus,” I think, “Where did you go?”
First all I had was memories. Now I piece you together from the stories people tell — friends, uncles and aunts; stories that reach me from afar, from uncertain places, suddenly. As if the world cannot forget you.
Losing you made us strong. Yet I wonder what you would have told me, taught me. What lessons did you have about school, work, living? About girls? Your wisdom on food, wine, clothes, those cigars, Cuba? It’s all lost to me.
What would it have taken for you to write something down?
I look at you playing Beethoven on the piano; just a boy piecing together all the things it takes to be a man, putting together the answers to live, to be happy. You miss a chord, laugh and try again. Those same hands that touch the keys stitched together a young man’s heart hours ago.
What about my heart?
“Dad” now means “omission” and “lost time;” “Synonym: a void.” The years you’ve been gone far surpass the years you were here. Twenty goddamned years.
Alejandro and his father, 1988, Puerto Rico.
That absence raised us. Andrea and I buried in our bedrooms. Augusto isolated in the basement. The three of us like child recluses growing up before the age of 11. Arianna only remembers what we tell her.
We had to learn alone what you would have told us.
We had to get up. We had to keep moving forward, but I live my life now discovering a world only to find I’ve merely rediscovered it. Half of Abbey Road was you, an old man on Latino streets, every goddamned Picasso painting has your face.
I’ve looked for you in every journey, on every adventure. I look to create a reflection of you in my own life, something you’d be proud to see. Searching for what a parent leaves behind; in his words, in his smiles, in his blood, a look in the eye that teaches a child the universe. I’m running to find you only to realize you are running with me.
Or maybe it’s just a dream, slipping through my fingers — maybe you aren’t there anymore.
I like to think you’d enjoy this new place, this city on an isthmus. The waters press this town together like the ocean back home. I see you at the farmers’ market buying your favorite ingredients. You’ve made friends with a few local farmers and exchange island recipes for Wisconsin fare on a hot summer day, a copy of Isthmus under your arm. Your accent stands out in the crowd as you tell a joke. I tell you I might start a family here and you throw your arm around my shoulder in pride.
But you’re not really there.
Some dads give their wives big diamonds and flowers… but you gave mom America. Those are some big shoes to fill, Pops.
A marriage come from communist revolution and divorce, you a Cuban refugee and mom just a small town Costa Rican girl, both ripped from your worlds. It was 1990 in San Juan and all you had was each other and the promise of a new life up north. Immigrant children searching for a new home.
Annabel Galva, the author's mother, in Puerto Rico sometime in the early 90s.
The letter addressed to you on the dinner table is from a big American university: “We are pleased to inform you...” You look at each other in our little Puerto Rican kitchen and smile.
I’ve never seen two people more happy when they were together.
One door gives way to another, graduation to a job, and we settle in the midwest.
“Where the hell is Omaha?” mom asked. You laugh.
Some dads buy their kids cars. You gave us the American Dream.
I look up at you standing in the kitchen, cooking the family meal, opening a wine bottle the old fashioned way. You sing along to the Spanish ballad playing a little too loudly on the stereo; your laugh and the smell of good food emanate through the house.
You were a surgeon, a husband, an artist, a father, a needed brother and friend. You were the story of great life, a bon vivant, a man of the world, a good man. You were everything life wanted you to be and everything lost I now look to find.
“Live every day of your life,” you told me.
Then, you were gone.
Dr. Anselmo Alonso was in a car crash on his way to work on Feb. 7, 1998. He passed away the next day. He is survived by his wife, Annabel Galva, and six children; Anselmo, Javier, Alejandro, Augusto, Andrea and Arianna.
