Tileman

 This was a story I wrote for a creative writing class in college almost ten years ago. It was one of several stories I wrote, but it was this one that stood out to my professor and he used it as an example in class. It's not so much that I was creative in my writing, but as a writer I took my sister's advice and found my forte writing about what I know. In remembrance of my grandfather's 19th anniversary on March 11th, I decided to post it here on my blog. Though it is significantly longer than my normal posts, I hope you find time to read it and can relate to the love of a grandfather.

 

 

T I L E MAN

By Crystal Dominguez

 

Three steps led up to a small area with a brick wall that hugged the porch. I was there quite often as a child, but now my recollection consisted of only vague, black and white images. Which in a way, complemented the already fixed perception I had of my grandparents from back in the old days.

It was that small, triangular house that sat in the middle of Pershing Drive, where the foundation of my childhood memories would take form. I remember all the identical houses surrounding it with only slight changes in color that separated them. When I would take a few steps back, I noticed that the entire block was synchronized with the same house structure and porch entrance. It was up close that the front porch of my grandparents’ home was permanently marked with a peculiar beauty that I would never be able to erase from my mind.

 

*             *            *

 

I don’t know how many times I tried to pick up the dimes and nickels that were randomly placed on my front porch. They seemed to have been there for as long as I could remember. I always wondered why no one else had yet slipped them into their pockets. They were just there, rusted silver coins that nobody else wanted to pick up. As I grew up, the coins were still there. Their worth still intact, but their rhyme or reason was beyond me. It wasn’t until I was older and able to comprehend the simple fact that the coins were always in the same place because they were stuck in the ground.

My front porch consisted of broken tile, not by accident of course, but purposely placed in a way that created an almost perfectly imperfect pattern with a few coins between random tiles. It was arranged with autumn shades of yellow, red, orange and brown with the exception of this one pattern that sits vaguely in my mind to this day. I think it is blue and white, swirled with . . . well I can’t remember. But regardless of the exact design, I noticed my porch was not the only one that harbored this futile money. When I saw a similar tile jobs at my grandparent’s home as well as other relatives, it was then I realized that was his trademark as a tileman.



My grandpa was an amazing man. Amazing in the fact that he was a wise, good-humored, hardworking gentleman who had made a living placing tile. From my earliest memories of him as a child to the day he died from lung cancer, tile was his life. No matter what he was wearing it seemed as though there were always stains of plaster on his clothes, especially on his pants around the knees. Tile setting was a passion of his, but also a necessity and nothing seemed to stop him. He would have kneeled down in a brand new suit if he had to. Even the day we found out he had cancer, his work seemed to have doubled. I remember staring at him in his recliner as he paused from watching the game, he had his hands pressed against his forehead as he tried hard for a deep breath. I knew it was the exhaustion setting in from chemotherapy. The 12-year-old in me felt scared in that moment as I was the only one in the living room with him, but the 77-year-old in him laughed it off and chalked it up to nothing more than a headache. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He said after I asked.

Albert Campos

 It was in those small, hazel eyes that seemed to tell a whole other story. He was spent. If only as much so as those coins stuck in the ground. It broke me to see the bark of this family tree losing its strength. He was after all, a father of seven kids and 25 grandchildren. I sat there with the football game flickering in the dark living room as I watched one of the biggest sports fans I ever knew, get defeated right in front of me.

 

*             *            *

His house smelled of freshly set cement and green and red chiles boiling in a pan. Loud voices and laughter rang throughout the kitchen as my dad, grandpa and uncles played poker. My younger cousins ran out to the backyard to play, which was a great place for hide and seek as there were always huge stacks of tile piled in his backyard of all colors and sizes. My older cousins were in the guest room hanging out talking about teenage life and there I was just a bored, 10-year-old left in the middle of nowhere, so I worked my way over to the poker table. I watched a few rounds and as the night wound down, I asked if I could play. I did after all have $20 in my plastic, Hello Kitty purse and caught on as quickly as I could to the games they were playing. At first, no one at the table even heard me ask. Then my stubbornness and persistence created a seat for me next to my father. My grandpa literally rolled his eyes at me in disappointment when I actually received enough votes to play, but at the time I didn’t know how serious they took the game. The poker table was no place for a kid, more specifically it was the adult table stacked with an equal amount of chips to Pabst Blue Ribbons. It was in one of the last rounds when I got to play. After a couple encouraging nudges from my father and a few bet-raising winks from my uncles, I matched what at the time looked like a whole lot of royalty in the middle of the table and in my hands. But today realize I beat my grandpa, dad and uncles at one round of Texas Hold Em. As my little hands reached for the middle of the table and pulled the pot towards me, those small, hazel eyes both starred and smiled at me, all-the-while grumbling a few bad words in Spanish, English and jibberish. That was my grandpa. Poker playing, tile-laying, football games, family, beer and hot chile.  

*             *            *

“ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

 

I didn’t understand the importance and the technicalities of tile setting until later on in my life when my father explained the craft that was passed down to him.

“You see Crystal, there’s different tile for different jobs. You have your tile that can be placed on floors for kitchens and those made for the walls of a bathroom.” I listened to him. There was a passion in his voice, but it was mostly seen through the straight lines and neatly set tile he had placed around the house. “Mastic is used for sheet rock and Thinset is used for cement. Bathrooms use the traditional white, but there is sanded grout that comes in different colors and is used when there is more than a quarter-inch between the joints or to you they’re just spaces.” Although, sometimes lost in his explanation, I always came out understanding more and more about tile…about my dad and grandpa…about life. It went deeper than just home renovation, there were solid parallels between tile setting and everyday life.

My grandpa started his own business as a tileman in the 1960s after he returned from World War II. After a short stint as a fireman, he decided to enter into the tile business for a more profitable career. My father started to work for him and that’s how he learned the trade. They had a very close relationship and my father knew my grandpa more like a best friend than an in-law.

 

I realized the art of placing tile had become a part of my life in more ways than one. There was meaning behind the tile. My grandpa was like the mortar keeping the family together and we were his little tiles. We needed each other. Separately some of us were unique, rough, shiny, rusty and broken, but together we were a masterpiece. Tile was more of a mindset that I got from the man who placed it in my life, but he shared it with others as well...in their homes and businesses around El Paso.

 Pershing Tile, my grandpa’s business, was a small, humble tile company that was named after the street he lived on for so long. It was not very complicated or really that professional, but the end result was well known around the city. He had about four to ten workers depending on whether his sons (my mother’s brothers), my father or my brothers would occasionally help him out at certain tile jobs. It was a trade the whole family knew a lot or at least a little something about. My grandpa paved the way for my father’s business as well. It opened the year I was born in 1983 and was named after me, Crystal Tile Company. It was a way for my father to take part in the trade he loved, but mainly to make ends meet because he had just gone on strike at the smoke stack while my mother was pregnant with me. However, Crystal Tile Company wasn’t too successful and ended a couple years later. All I remember was the tile and white plastered buckets that were now stacked in my backyard, as well as the hundreds of business cards left over that had my name on them. They were plain, white cards that read in bold letters, “Crystal Tile Company, Free Estimates, Henry Dominguez, 751-4951.” It made me feel special to have such a connection to the trade even though I never got my hands dirty.

I was always fascinated by tile when I was little. The only jobs I saw done were the ones in my home. Every single piece of tile placed in my home was done either by my grandpa or my father and brothers. My den had dark reddish brown tiles that looked like huge bricks that had sunk into the ground. The kitchen had yellow and white tiles that were staggered neatly along the counters and walk way. The hallway bathroom was my favorite. Light, pink tiles lined the walls and all along the shower. My mother’s bathroom was decorated in pale shades of brown with reddish toned colors on the floor. No matter where I looked…there was tile. We would use small and large pieces of tile as coasters, wall decorations and as centerpieces on the tables. Even one of our flowerpots in the kitchen had green and white tiles in the shape of leaves all around it.  It wasn’t until later my mother told me she had made it when she was younger. I guess her father had also taught her a thing or two about the trade.  

*             *            *

I watched as my grandpa and my dad kneeled for hours on the bathroom floor. I was worried my mother was going to pass by and be upset with them for making such a mess. But she walked by and instead complemented them on the work they had accomplished so far. It didn’t really seem like they had everything under control, but now I understand why.

“You see Crystal, placing tile is an easy craft to learn, but it’s very competitive. Back in the day, you needed to know how to plaster walls to even them out before you could even place tile, but after they introduced Sheetrock and Wonderboard it became easier for people to learn.” My father always jumping from one point to another, “It’s a very messy job applying the grout, so people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

I realized this held true when I watched the process unfold before my eyes. They broke off all the old tile that was going to be replaced and started leveling the ground and sweeping up the remaining pieces. They measured the walls and started with the longest wall first. After they were finished cutting pieces of tile with what I used to think looked like a fancy cheese grater, they used a trowel to apply the mastic, which acted as a glue to hold the tile in place. They placed the tile firmly into the ground and used little, white spacers to evenly separate each tile. I remember always playing with those little white spacers because they, for one reason or another, ended up in my Lego box when my sister and I would dump them on the floor and start building nonsense. One day I guess they decided not to use the spacers, but again I learned another tile lesson from my father, who now acts as a messenger for my grandpa who I no longer can ask.

“You see Crystal, in bathrooms . . .” he paused losing his train of thought and slightly thrown off track. “Placing tile is a long process. It takes 24 hours for the mastic to set in with the grout . . . And the spacers are not needed when placing tile in a bathroom. You see, the bathroom tiles already have a built in ridge that spaces them out evenly and typically you are going to use nonskid tile to avoid slippery situations.”

Okay. So he was a little confusing to understand sometimes, especially when he jumbled up his thoughts and spit out mixed sentences, but that was the interesting part. Tile seemed to be a very organized process that had a lot more detail to follow than a foreigner to the craft might expect.

After they had all the tiles in place they mixed the grout and then scooped it out from white buckets and began to spread it on top of the tile with a float pushing the grout into the joints. I was baffled as to why they were putting this on top of the pretty tiles. I thought it was going to get stuck to the tile and ruin everything they had just spent hours on. But they were patient and let it set.

 After learning the messiest part was the most important, the next and final step became my favorite part to watch. They dipped huge orange sponges into the bucket of water and in circular motions wiped down the tile. Very quickly with not much effort the excess grout disappeared and the shiny new tile that had been placed adjusted to its new surroundings. The wet sponges revealed more to me than I think anyone else could understand. No matter how organized you do things and how perfect you want things to be, they have to get a little messy before things start looking good again. I guess this inspired me more than the old cliché that spoke of cloudy days and the trust that there’ll be sunny ones.

 

*             *            *

 

It was March 11, 1996. Exactly one week after his 77^th birthday. It felt like I had just played Las Mananitas for him on my cello. He was in good spirits, but the Hospice nurses let us know he didn’t have much time.

Slowly, one by one, from around town to different states, we all made it to my grandpa’s house for one last goodbye. This time there was an empty poker table, my younger cousins sat quietly in the living room and the tile, well it was still stacked in the backyard. A moment where I wanted to run out and hide from the sadness inside. Many times I saw both my pregnant aunt and sister hold his hand to their bellies as he lay there in his bed slowly leaving us. Tears were rolling down everyone’s cheeks as his breaths were getting further and further apart. His small, hazel eyes closing and his raspy, distinct voice…in the distance. He held on long enough for one more goodbye as my two uncles closed the door to my grandpa’s room for one last time after they shared one final moment with him. He peacefully drifted away…

After my grandpa died I knew I knew him, but maybe not as well as I had liked to. All the stories I heard and the more I learned about him, came mostly from my parents and grandma. I was around him a lot but mostly as a child so I never really had a chance to sit down and have a real conversation with him. I knew there was more than tile to this man. There was a heart big enough to create the big, loving family that I am proud to be a part of. A husband that produced more than just seven kids with his beautiful wife, Carmen. There’s a father that taught his kids more about the ups-and-downs of life than he even knew he did. A father-in-law that handed down a craft and a friendship that would impact the life of other’s in more ways than one, and as a grandfather who would grab the hands of his grandchildren immediately after they walked into his home and take them across the street to the Circle K for candy. His passion for the UTEP Miners, hot chile, backyard huachas, beautiful pieces of tile, a close game, a cold beer, a good joke and a big win at poker. It was these things that made him such a great person. And that’s what I knew of.

Right before he died, I wanted him to remember me as an individual rather than just another one of his 25 grandchildren. It wasn’t that I felt deprived, but I wanted him to see that there are certain, distinctive qualities that set each and every one of us apart. I wanted him to know me as a person, know what I’m involved in, how I’m doing in school and how I sound when I play my cello.

I slowly worked my way from a small chair against my grandmother’s wall to an open spot on the floor as I closely and curiously listened to her talk. Before I knew it, the fifteen minutes I had planned on staying had turned into a very quick two hours.

 “I was about your age when I met your grandpa,” she paused taking a moment to reminisce about her past. “ . . . He was so cute.” She said honestly and sarcastically at the same time.

She talked her life as a child; how she dealt with the Depression and the time she spent away from my grandpa when he served in World War II.

It seemed as though everyone had their memories of grandpa, but mine, although chopped and scattered, were a possession I cherished immensely and somehow crumbled together from top to bottom in this blog.

Even though he is no longer here, his presence is locked in each and every tile that is placed in El Paso. He surrounds me in my home, my mind and my heart.

 

It was just recently when I found out why he placed coins around his tile work . . . The year of each coin matches the year he placed the tile at the specific site. Now whenever I see tile he placed in El Paso, including my front porch, I know when my grandpa was at that very spot. Whenever I pass that house on Pershing, I still can’t let go of that peculiar beauty, his creativeness and his trademark. The idea alone creates a warm sense of comfort that fills my heart’s vacancy for my grandpa’s presence. He was a smart man; he left behind a piece of himself for us to embrace.   

The day he died, my family’s sense of humor got us through our great loss and battle with emotions. My aunt laughed and said my grandfather would be disappointed once he got to heaven.

“He probably told God that he needed tile in heaven so it would look pretty. I bet he already is starting his next tile job right now.”

 

*             *            *

I sat in the church surrounded by my brothers and sisters. My hands were interlocked, my head down. I prayed. It was a tough goodbye for me, because at a young age I was still looking for a better grasp on the definition of death.  But I guess God needed a bigger job from my grandpa than we all understood. His white slicked back hair and cute, wrinkled face that still held on to his handsomeness with his favorite red and blue flannel shirt.

 I would miss him more than I understood at the time. It was at the church for his funeral, where I was lost in my own thoughts and memories with the mumbled and monotone sounds in the background, I stared at the floor beneath my feet and cried. Through my tears I could feel my grandpa’s spirit was lifting up all of us.

It was in that moment that my mother told me one of his last big tile jobs was in that church. Chills ran down my spine as I felt a sense of serenity arrest my body. My grandfather placed the pearly-white tile underneath everyone’s feet at St. Joseph’s Church . . . the church where we told him goodbye. It was one of the biggest and most beautiful displays of his work -- of his life that I had ever seen. I felt comforted. And with him beneath our feet, I guess it was his way of letting us know that he was going to carry us through this. It kind of reminded me of the poem, Footprints in the Sand, but in this case of course, it would be tiles.

“You see Crystal,” My father’s voice rang in my head, “ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

My dad was right. I had to trust that no matter how bad things looked in that moment, God knew what He was doing. Maybe things looked messy and I couldn’t see clearly how things might turn out, but I waited patiently and as always was overly impressed with what God revealed with His wet sponge…

 

                   ________________________________________________

 

Albert Campos 1917-1996

 

The next time you see tile with a coin stuck in the ground in El Paso, Texas...

 

The Tileman was there.

Ladybugs and People

For those that know me well, know I love tiny animals and have a serious case of cute aggression! Basically, I am Elmira from Tiny Toon cartoons minus the craziness. Well...I don't know. 

I was scrolling through something online and saw a picture of a ladybug and it reminded of my brothers. When I was little I would get so excited to catch one. I felt like I could give it the perfect little home with some water and grass in a plastic cup. But by the time my clumsy little hands tried to prepare that and actually catch it -- it would fly away from me. 

I would chase it and chase it. (You see what I'm saying here?) I remember my brothers would see how hard I tried and they would tell me to show them where the ladybug was. I'd show them. Then they would do something that made so much sense to me at the time, but today makes me cringe. 

He'd carefully grab the ladybug and under its pretty little, red-spotted shell-like body, he'd pull its little black wings off. He'd smile and say, "There now he can't get away from you!"

Photo Jamie Austin

Wow. My brothers are just so smart and they are the best! Just like that, I had a little beetle friend and was going to take care of it forever! 

On the other hand, now the ladybug was unable to take care of its eggs, unable to fulfill its little 1-2 year lifespan and unable to be a ladybug because of my selfish, twisted idea thinking I was taking care of it when I was actually harming it. But at the time, this was irrelevant, it was about me and what I wanted.

My brothers were teenagers at the time and would probably never do that again. I asked them if they remembered and my brother Andy said, "That's an easy memory."

And I'm just talking tiny bugs. But what if you're dealing with your own ladybug problems in your life right now? Whose wings have you pulled off recently? 

 My other brother Gabriel joked, "That's what big brothers are for. Too bad your favorite boyfriends didn't have wings." And that's just the thing. Thank God my brothers never pulled the wings off my ex-boyfriends just so I would be happy. Some people aren't meant to stay in your life. Some are, but fly away for a bit.

 

"If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself."

As I scroll through my timeline I often come across posts that deal with relationship issues, trust issues or insecurities about a loved one. 

Sometimes when we want what we want, we do everything we can to make sure it doesn't leave us. What would we do without them? How will our lives carry on seamlessly? It goes back to the cliche, "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, then it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never meant to be."

That concept would have been tough for my five-year-old mind to comprehend, but what it is today -- is quite simply great advice. 

I realize that the parallel I'm making is somewhat different when it comes to the innocent and childish intentions I had of simply capturing a ladybug as compared to a broken marriage, distant family member or lost friendship. But as adults we need to recognize we are fully capable of making the right decision, yet we still find ourselves running aimlessly with our hands out.

If you're struggling to let go of a person who otherwise wants nothing to do with you, you have to be an adult about the situation. Tearing their wings off and making them stay in your life is going to be more grudge and regret than peace and understanding. 

If you're holding on to just threads of what was once a quilted relationship, you have to let go. 

It's a miserable sight to see someone stay in something they despise and the other person to be content with just barely making it work. You're going to end up with a cup filled with wilted grass, dirty water and a ladybug on its back. Don't be a grown-up brat. It's not just about you and what you want. Think about other people. Are they happy?

Don't stay in something because it's familiar or what you're used to. Don't let someone guilt you into staying either. If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself.

Whose wings have you pulled off? Or is it yours that are missing? 

You shouldn't hold ladybugs hostage. 

So don't do it to people.

LETGOd.

The Lies

He told me I was ugly. He told me that I would never amount to anything. He said I was always sick, I needed to lose weight, I was not good enough and he said it with such conviction.

It happened every time I tried my best, saw a good day and felt a renewed sense of strength. He was there to remind me -- I was wrong. The second I believed him, only opened the door for his opportunity. He made it clear my talents were useless and I would not succeed in this life. He however, succeeded at pushing me back down and keeping me there. I knew I deserved better. So why did I find myself coming back to his trap?

I felt the weight of heavy chains on me. Holding me down. Anxiety poured through my body. I was being held hostage in my own bed. Not wanting to face another day. Thinking the worst and expecting the least. He was always there in the corner, prowling like a lion ready to devour me.

 I woke up one day feeling like I needed a new start. I needed to remind myself who I was and what I was capable of. I pulled out my new laptop. I sat on my couch, took a deep breath and just typed and typed. It was my therapy – writing. It allowed me to transfer my crowded thoughts for the time being and place them somewhere else. It was a chance to see them from a different angle. To share them and see who could relate. This often granted me some sort of sanity. It was the first three paragraphs above this one that I wrote that day in March. But he knew what I was up to. He knew my plan to expose him. To show everyone his true colors – or lack thereof. It was that last line “…to devour me” when my laptop froze. The cursor stopped blinking and the already cracked screen seemed to have malfunctioned. My laptop would not turn back on. I guess he saw what I was doing and put a stop to it.

I gave up. Fell back down the second I tried to come back up. I questioned the direction of my career and prayed hard about it. One thing went wrong and I let everything crumble down on me. But something kept telling me "Write, write, write." After ignoring it for so long I knew I had to be obedient. I didn't want to turn this 11-day trip into a 40-year journey. I even tried to take my laptop to get fixed with hopes to retrieve what I had written. Hoping it had saved. Not that it was much, but it was a start to a point I had to make. I sent my laptop to HP in Houston on its warranty. I prayed it could could be fixed. They deemed it a lost cause because of the damaged screen. When I got it back, I never took it out of the FedEx box. I just tucked it away in my closet. Oh well. I tried.

I laid in my bed. Way past morning. Did not care to get up, but so tired of sleeping. I reached for my phone and played the first online daily broadcast by Joyce Meyer that I saw. It didn’t take but a few seconds to hear it was talking to me. It wasn’t just her reaching out to her mass audience – it was God trying to get my attention. “Stop throwing yourself a pity-party! Get up! Quit talking about it, complaining about it and instead go do something about it!”

The reassurance from her audience was audible, but the reassurance I felt was tangible. I could feel God’s Spirit working in me. What happened to me was more than a coincidence, in fact my mother told us to take that word out of our vocabulary long ago. God spoke to me. He promised me. I had a choice. Believe it and see for myself or ignore it, lie back down and believe the lies.

I pulled out my laptop from the Styrofoam-filled box. Hoping for the best, I pressed the power key. Nothing. Oh, I should probably plug it in. I laughed. How stupid. Okay, hoping one more time. What if they did fix it and just didn’t tell me? Would someone be so nice? I had prayed about it. A faint blue light came on. It started to load. Wow. Thank You! Now the only thing on my mind was – did it save what I wrote?

With time and with the ability to confront him – I broke free from his grasp. I told him to leave me alone and never come back. He left. But I was still scared he would return when I least expected it – when I was at my most vulnerable. Today, I still have to look over my shoulder.

He may have robbed me of pleasant days, of peace in my relationships and of opportunities I otherwise would have challenged myself to. He had such a paralyzing hold on me, my words and my actions. I did things so out of character when he was around because I was so unhappy. He poisoned my thoughts and my heart. He tried to take over a life that wasn’t his. And to know the entire time, the one that truly loved me never gave up on me. He kept His promises. He was there all along, waiting for me to glance in His direction.

To this day, that liar has dared to show his ugly face in many different forms in my life. I have finally come to terms with how to handle his devious ways and it is not as complex as it seems. Always be prepared. I have a warfare of Words. So, it is written.

“Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. You adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” -1 Peter 5:8

The proof is in what happens after that third paragraph. I kept pushing. He did not devour me. The second I tried to expose the lies of the enemy, he struck back. I am writing this from my broken laptop. I have succeeded in finally being able to share it with you after five months.

The next time you feel like everything is going wrong and everyone is against you -- more than likely it is just your adversary that is trying to bring you down. What will your reaction be? You do have a choice. Become angry? Quit? Blame everyone? Lock yourself in your room? Take your situation out on loved ones? Or will you recognize the deceit and battle the enemy’s lies with Words? Just one letter short of Swords.

The Secret Power of Speaking God’s Word

“I arise from the depression and prostration in which circumstances have kept me -- I arise to a new life! I shine [am radiant with the glory of the Lord], for my light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon me!” –Isaiah 60:1

Photo Courtesy: InGodsImage.com, WritingforRcovery.wordpress.com

The Tenth

A poem dedicated to mothers who have endured the pain of losing a child; whether that be a miscarriage or during birth. This poem is special to me and my family. I thank God for giving me the words to write it.

Today I left you, but not alone
I saw Him hold your hand
He wiped each tear from your eyes
Please Mom understand:

He said that I was made

So perfect in your womb
He knew my name and my days
He just asked me to come Home soon

The hurt you felt in your heart

He said He will take away...
And replace it with a resounding joy
Enough to fill your days

He heard your cry

though you couldn't hear mine
He mourned with you and stayed
He promises me and you…
    will see each other again one day

The reason why I had to leave

He knew it all along
He needed me ABOVE you
Instead of in your arms

He asks you not to forget of me

But remember me each time you pray
Because that's when we are closest
When you look up...I see your face

These wings are awfully big

But perfect to protect all of you
I hold you all so tight at night
And follow your steps too

When you start to miss me

Use the windows to my soul
Stare into daddy's eyes
And that's when you will know

Because when you smile back at him

He'll see me smiling too
That's when you'll feel the peace and strength
Knowing I'm so close to you

With peace I leave you and dad
My sisters and my brother too
I may not have seen my room
But you gave me life in your womb

You sacrificed your body
To bring forth an eternal life
More special than you know
Forever...I will survive!

From here I see it's clear as day
As He rocks me in His Arms
The Lord gave His only begotten son
And in return you gave Him yours

When tears fall and years go by
Listen to the beating of your heart
Because He made me through you
That will never keep us apart

Love your Angel Baby
Our time on Earth was short
But that is only a temporary place

I'm

        Home

                     Forever

                                       Now.

Goodbye

I've come to terms with the word "good-bye."

 
I've accepted that no matter what situation I'm in -- the separation anxiety may come, but I will not allow it to beat me. Most good-byes are temporary and those that seem final are bound to come full-circle at one point in your life or later. Whether it's dropping the kids off at school or seeing your loved one's name inscribed on a stone -- it's never final, just temporary.

 

If I only knew that when I was dealing with my first big bout with good-bye, I think my departure from family would have been less heartbreaking and scary when I left my hometown of El Paso to attend college at Texas Tech in Lubbock, Texas, some 10 years ago.

                                                               *  *  *  *  *

I couldn't believe I was actually going through with it. My dad closed the trunk to his car and finished loading my boyfriend's truck. I was off to Lubbock for college. What was I thinking? It was too late to turn back as we headed three hours into the road trip. Why didn't I just go to my hometown college UTEP? Ugh. My stomach was in knots and throughout the road trip my anxiety took front seat.

My parents, my boyfriend at the time and his father were dropping me off at my dorm room. The weekend flew by as they moved me in. My time with them was brief, and it was time to part. I didn't know anyone in town at that time, not even who my roommate was going to be. The four of us walked slowly up to the dorm building elevators. They walked me to my dorm room one last time. Every moment seemed too fast.

 

It was in that moment I thought my decision to leave home would surely consume me. I told my boyfriend's father goodbye first, then hugged my dad so tight and tried to hold in my tears while hiding my face in his shirt.

 

No one had ever left town for college in my family. We were all too close. Up until the moment I graduated my parents supported my decisions in high school. Once I told them I wanted to leave for college -- they didn’t seem thrilled. The local newspaper interviewed my mother with a headline that read "Leaving the Nest." The article revolved around teens of tight-knit Hispanic families who typically tended to stay close to the flock when it came to choosing a college. My mother was heartbroken, yet was quoted offering her support and trust in my decision to study elsewhere.  

During my final good-bye with my mother at my college dorm, I could see her lips quivering and tears rolling down her face. She hugged me so tight and kissed me on the cheek. She stepped back, looked at me and told me she was proud of me.

 

Why didn't I just go to UTEP?

 

I was the youngest of the six. Her baby was growing up too fast. They left me in the hallway to say bye to my boyfriend. How was a long distance relationship between us going to work? I hugged and kissed him goodbye.

 

As they all walked away, I lost it in the hallway. Why didn't I just go to UTEP? My mom came back out of the elevator to comfort me and for one last hug as if we would never see each other again. I closed the door to my dorm room. Stared out the window and watched them drive . . . home. I regretted my decision to leave town. That was and still is the hardest goodbye I have ever experienced. I have had my share of loss in my life in other ways but not by my choice. When it's your own decision to leave, doubt sets in.

 

"Thereafter, I became good at good-byes but that doesn't mean they ever truly left my heart feeling good. Leaving just got easier and more routine is all."

It was just a couple hours before I was getting ready to go live for a noon show at my first TV job in Amarillo. My phone rang. It was my sister. I'll call her later. I continued setting up my phone interviews when my cell phone rang again and again. It's my sister. This time my heart sank. I knew -- I just knew something was wrong.

 

After two strokes in three years, my grandma was in her last moments as the family slowly filed into the nursing home that day: whether it was leaving work early and trying to beat traffic or getting taken out of class early to give Grandma one last kiss. They were all there to say good-bye. I on-the-other-hand sat at my desk eight hours away from where she was in El Paso and stared at my phone.

 

I rushed to the airport and went through airport security a mess: mascara smeared from crying. I was worn out but still hopeful my flight was not going to be delayed one second. In a way, I was hoping to turn back the hands of time.

 

I sat staring at my carry-on. I couldn't even remember what I threw in it. I was waiting for my airplane to board. Getting frequent updates from my mother and brother letting me know how my grandma was doing. Although my brother stayed calm with me, I could hear it in his voice -- I wasn't going to make it home on time. He placed the phone against my grandma's ear. I closed my eyes, as tears rolled down my face forgetting I was amongst strangers. I told her how much I loved her. How much she meant to me. How much I wished I could be right there by here side. Her stroke compromised her ability to speak. I heard her try though. I heard her one last time. Then I said, "good-bye."

"I could hear it in his voice -- I wasn't going to make it home on time."

I sit here writing this at home in El Paso on my parent's computer. Finished with college, I'm back full circle. I'm living with my parents in the room I grew up, in the room I once cried to leave when I first went to college -- as I wait on where my career takes me next. But oddly, this typically loud and busy house is empty. Half of my siblings were relocated for their jobs within the last year. For those who have to be away from their kids, it's especially hard when your kids are too young to understand the concept of distance and time.

My point: whether it's by choice or out of your control, good-byes can build you or break you. If it's an airport that separates you, a break-up, the military, your job, divorce, custody or death -- good-byes are a consequence of your own decisions past and present or just a matter of time. They are inevitable, but some -- only temporary.