Juan Pablo

Juan Pablo

I was with my abuelo, Juan Pablo, the day he succumbed to madness. He was my hero. I grew up in the pueblo of Colula, not far from the city of Oaxaca, Mexico. My grandparents, Juan Pablo and Maria Teresa, helped my parents raise all six of us brothers. We lived on a small, dusty chicken farm behind the town square. Juan Pablo and my father, Jose Luis, built our rectangular home out of cinder blocks. It wasn’t much, but it had two bedrooms and a working toilet. My hermanos and I slept on couches and sleeping bags all over the kitchen and TV room. We didn’t need our own rooms; we had access to the TV and refrigerator all night long.

Every morning before our rooster, El Macho, blasted his wake-up reverie, I followed Juan Pablo into the hen house to collect the eggs. Juan Pablo seemed old before I was born, so at ten years old, I continually worried that his worn-out back and bowed legs would no longer keep him upright. Actually, that was only part of the reason I wanted to be by his side. I couldn’t wait to hear my grandfather’s stories about his days as a vaquero herding cattle for the rich farmers who sold livestock all over Mexico.

“Mi’jo, there’s nothing like feeling a ton of animal beneath you. If you are worth your title, vaquero, then you and that beast ride as one. Just a gentle nudge of the rein, or a flick of your spur is enough to communicate your intentions. That caballo could take you to Heaven. I felt the ground move from the weight of hundreds of cattle moving to my whims; cotton clouds stuck to azul skies as far as the eye could see; and, the blue-gray Sierra Madre Mountains rimmed the world in their majesty. I never thought I’d be happier experiencing anything else until I first saw your grandmother, Maria Teresa, beating rugs on the porch of El Patron’s rancho.”

My grandfather told me this story the week before my grandmother died in her sleep. It would be the last story he would ever tell me.

“She was a vision. Her long, black braids danced back and forth with each swing of the carpet beater. She had the body of a dancer, long and lean. Her bronze skin and delicate features reminded me of the Mexican movie stars I so coveted in my youth. I never thought she would look twice at me, a short Zapotec Indian with calloused hands. But she did. Day after day, I courted her on that porch until she agreed to be my wife.”

After my abuela passed, Juan Pablo and I had a new ritual together. We collected the eggs before taking a long hike up a steep hill. My grandfather insisted on building a cement shrine to Maria Teresa in the shape of a huge cross, measuring ten feet by five feet. My father argued for days with my grandfather about the excess weight of the cross not being able to stand firm on the unstable hill. In our family, Juan Pablo always had the last word. Maria Teresa would have a front row seat to view God’s Heaven on Earth. For eternity.

So, abuelo, Papa, me, and my brothers loaded up the wheelbarrows with fresh cement cinder blocks. We sweated through days of making sure Juan Pablo’s cross was perfect for Maria Teresa—tall, strong, proud. Just like my grandmother. My grandfather was obssessed. He and I were the first ones on that hill each day, and we were the last to leave each night, making sure every brick was even. I felt relieved abuela died in the middle of summer, so I could be present during every phase of abuelo’s gift, dedicated to the woman he loved for fifty years.

One day, close to the beginning of the school year, my youngest brother, five-year-old Miguel, begged to join us for our morning ritual—gather the eggs, then visit abuela’s cross. He wanted to pick wildflowers and place them in the niche Juan Pablo had carved into the center of the cross. I didn’t want my little brother taking up my special time with grandfather, but abuelo was visibly moved by Miguel’s sweet sentiment. I saw Juan Pablo grab a soiled handkerchief out of his back pocket and swipe it across his eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of picking flowers? I pushed Miguel out of my way and barked, “Miguelito, stay close to us on the path. There are rattlesnakes this time of the year.”

As we trudged up the hill, Miguel ran around us looking for flowers. Abuelo was unusually quiet that day. I was so busy watching Miguel, I forgot to ask my grandfather the questions I had rehearsed in my mind that morning. Something felt off. Annoyed at Miguel for interrupting my time with abuelo, my mood sank into a dark place. Before I could process my feelings, I forgot about Miguel and noticed Juan Pablo sink to his knees, sobbing from a place deep in his soul. I ran to his side, covering his back with my hugs.

“Abuelo, estas bien? Grandfather, are you okay?” I had never witnessed my grandfather cry like that.

“Si, Mi’jo, I just miss her so much.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed. I felt the strength of his years maneuvering a ton of animal beneath him.

Instinct urged me to search for Miguel. I jumped up just as I heard the rumble of earth moving around our feet. It felt like an earthquake common to our region, but sounded like a crackling tree falling to the ground. I grabbed Juan Pablo away from the cross just as it began to crumble down the hillside.

“Miguel!” I screamed. I ran around the road, hoping to find him with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. I scrambled through the scrub brush, hoping to find him hiding from us. When I turned around, Juan Pablo, was gone. The cross was gone. Miguel was gone.

I lept to the top of the unsteady hill, the hill my father begged his father not to build upon. I scanned the valley floor like a red tail hawk looking for prey. I immediately found my prey.

Juan Pablo sat among the shattered pieces of Maria Teresa’s cross, cradling Miguel in his arms. By the time I reached them, I saw the blood oozing from Miguel’s head and my grandfather’s vacant stare. I tried to pry Miguel out of my abuelo’s arms, but he squeezed his youngest grandson into his chest even tighter. I knew my little brother was dead before I took his pulse.

***

My family built two crosses—one large, one small—in the town cemetery for Maria Teresa and Miguelito. My grandfather hasn’t spoken one word since the day the cross fell, a year ago. If he had his way, abuelo would sit by the window and look out at the land he loved until it was his turn to join his beloved wife and grandson. But, I insist that my grandfather wears his white cowboy hat every morning while I guide him into the hen house to collect the eggs.

Note: Sensitive theme is in relation to death, but not gory.