95

My father couldn't look at photos. They made him too sad. He couldn't believe that time could pass so quickly. If someone had told him 94 years ago that he would live 87 years and that his oldest son would be writing this piece seven years later, he would have shaken his head in wonder.

I'm listening to Bossa Nova while the air-conditioner purrs. I am alone. In my heart of hearts I know that everything is destined to end badly and sadly. Nevertheless, artists require dark edges in order to carve out their visions. (Will all my writings be lost?)

I am staring at three photos, the last three photos I have of my sons. As part of leaving as much as I could behind to make myself as light as possible for the final descent, I filled two large manila envelopes with pictures that I split between the two oldest and Mick. Two of the photos are of the older two taken 25 years ago and only minutes apart.

In the first they are sitting on a couch with their hair slicked back and attired in ties. In the second they are standing in the garage with their backs to the camera and their arms around each other. Dante, the bigger of the two, has his arm draped over Diego's shoulder while Diego has his arm wrapped around his brother's waist. The last time I talked to their mother I started yelling at her. It is all so remorseless, so final. Those two little boys have long since passed into the penumbra. Like my father's grave, there are only searing memories.

The third picture shows Mick with his hands deep in his pockets. He was eleven. That little boy hasn't disappeared totally, but he is fading. When I used to collect him at his daycare, the children would be playing outside. I would exit the back door and call, "Donde esta mi hijo bonito?"

My three boys have a profound love for each other. The tears are streaming down my face as I shake my head in frustration. Three failed marriages. But the children stay said a South Texas legend who had mas o menos 30 kids.

"Every one asks me if I had them con la misma," he would tell his audiences. "Yes, I had all of them con la misma."  He would pause for a few seconds while every one would be shaking his or her head  that he had had this many kids with the same woman when he would add, "Con la misma verga!"

Besides an unfathomable and incomprehensible love, it is humor that steels you to the end.

My father, who slumped to his demise over a two-year period as every step forward was met by three steps backward, was sitting in his chair six months before his death surrounded by well-wishers at a family-and-friends gathering when someone asked, "How are you feeling, Tom?"

My mother was standing at his side. He gripped the inside of one of her thighs and responded, "I'm feeling pretty good right now."