On this morning he was playing with my little nephew and me, sitting in the living room of our home. Mom could be heard in the back ground, busied in the kitchen preparing breakfast. It was so early, that my sisters hadn’t risen out of bed yet. Omar must have been no more than eight or nine at the time; Enrique, my little nephew, must have been five, at the most. I was in my early teens, living through that awkward “big-boy” stage, reluctant to give up on childhood, while eager to be a grown up –or at least a teenager’s understanding of such.
Early as it was, this was not the most unusual aspect of this picture. That became painfully etched in Omar’s little face the moment mom made an entrance from the kitchen into the living room. The blood hastily drained from his face in fright, leaving a pale ghost-like impression on his countenance. Yes, Omar was terrified of my mother. Several times before, upon hearing her voice, or noticing her approach, he would run away in fright. It was all very comical to us. We never quite understood why. I suspect it was the thunderous voice my mom had at the time, but that’s just my guess.
On this morning, however, Omar somehow overcame his initial fright; he looked at me for reassurance, then remained seated playing with us in the living room. Pretty soon he was back to his happy-go-lucky child self, guffawing and quarrelling in turn with us as we played, mom being nothing but a barely perceptible, unthreatening memory to him.
He was as happy as can be when he left the house; he even allowed mom a soft hair-ruffling stroke on his head as he left. His unusual behavior was the talk of the morning in our household. We were delighted.
Later that morning, or the following –I don’t quite remember- I was on my way to the “Pulperia”; as I headed down the gravel hill to the little store I heard Omar’s familiar voice calling me. I turned around to see his little body bouncing around on the back of a bamboo hauling truck thundering up the hill. Omar used one hand to wave at me, a big smile etched on his face, as he struggled to stay bellied down on the flat, wooden, fenceless surface of the bouncing empty back of the truck.
I waved back at him, happy to see him, barely noticing, and, instantly dismissing his obvious peril.
The truck rumbled away up the hill with Omar having the time of his life, as I walked my way in the opposite direction.
I was barely out of the “Pulperia” when another kid ran up to me –terror in his eyes- yelling, “Dennis, Dennis, Omar…. Omar…”
“What about Omar”? I said.
“He is dead; he is dead”.
“Quit playing. It’s not funny. I just saw him heading up the hill on the back of a truck”
“Yes.” He replied. “I’m not playing. He fell off the truck”…
I ran up that gravel hill so fast, it was as if I was levitating. Tears gushing, I made it to the gruesome scene, where a man thought this an opportune and appropriate moment to teach the neighborhood kids a lesson. He repeatedly removed the stained white blanket covering Omar, admonishing the growing crowd of gathering kids about what can happen when jumping on the back of trucks.
In time, I’ve witness the departure of more loved ones than I care to count: Mom, grandparents, friends, girlfriends, cousins, uncles, aunts, grade-aunts, pets. Each, in turn, leaving their own signature scar on my heart and a void impossible to fill.
Like Omar, I still remember them all with a mixture of joy and sadness: the joy of the memories we created together and the sad awareness of their permanent departure.
Today, molded by the gifts of them, my spirit rejoices in their memory.
Certainly, in your own journey through life you will, if not yet have, experience the loss of loved ones. Take a moment to rejoice in their presence and co-create in the memories you will have as your only companion when they are gone. Now, let’s talk about you!
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