Abre la caja.
Saca la flor.
Eres mi amor.
I don't have much difficulty remembering all the occasions people were mean to me. Those memories still haunt me, obviously.
However, every single time a person has been kind to me, or made me smile, has remained in my memory even more brightly. They're the memories I rush back to whenever I try to get out of the darkness I often feel.
As a kid, I can honestly say adults were more responsible for making me cry than making me smile.
But there was one kid... well, I call him a kid now, since I'm 25 and anyone below the age of 25 is a kid to me... he was about 16 or 17... he'd take the time out of his day to make my seven-year-old self smile.
He was my grandpa's peon. No one would hire him because he was an out-of-towner... and Hometown people have always been weary of those people. Grandpa, however, aways took pity on those travelers and gave them work at his farm.
This guy, Ivan, had become Grandpa's right hand man. He'd be responsible for driving Grandpa around, and once the work hours were over, Grandpa would let him take the truck and drive around to find himself a girlfriend.
I'd often see Ivan, since back then, we spent more time at Grandpa's place than our own, 'cause Mom's a huge scaredy-cat and hates being alone.
Back then, all us little kids would play in the bed of Grandpa's truck, because that's where his dogs would chill.
Anyway, whenever Ivan would come down from his house to meet up with Gramps, he'd bump into us and start chatting us up.
I'd be the shy kid, in the corner furthest away from him, petting the dogs, not saying a word. He'd move back to where I was, and each day, he'd try and make me smile.
He'd give me pointers on what to say to the boys I liked... or he'd "share" a secret with me... like telling me which girls he liked, then he'd tell me what a hard time they were giving him.
I thought he was cute... but obviously, he was way older than me, so it was one of those platonic things. He knew it, but he was always very nice to me, and would treat me like his baby sister.
One particular day, I was mad at my siblings and cousins for being assholes because they tattled on me for not eating breakfast (sometimes, I just don't feel like eating... and this always pisses people off. I don't get it), which made my grandparents scream at me, and Mom force-feed me.
I was outside, crying while playing with some kittens, when Ivan came over to me with his hands held together as if he was holding something small in them.
He told me to "open the box." Abre la caja.
I acted as if I was unlocking it with an imaginary key.
He opened his hands like a book.
"Take out the flower." Saca la flor.
I looked at his empty hands... but acted as if I was picking up a flower.
"You're my love." Eres mi amor.
I blushed. He smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes.
I smiled immediately... a bashful smile, but it did make me forget about all the fuckery going on around me.
I believe that was the last summer he worked for Grandpa, since he moved to the U.S. and we lost track of him.
It was probably 2006 when he was back in Hometown, deported for drug trafficking.
When I saw him again, he was a hardened criminal.
He had a new nickname, "Chiquilin," something similar to "tiny" but a name given to him as an oxymoron, just like the actor Tommy "Tiny" Lister.
Everyone was scared of him... because he was a beast. He could (and would) fight two guys at a time, and he'd still have the strength to fight two more.
He'd fight dirty, too... he'd break bottles and cut people... that sort of shit.
People were told to avoid him, because random shit would set him off.
Since I live three houses away from the town's Cantina, I'm forced to bump into all the drunks of town before getting home.
Although I had lovely memories of Ivan, I was scared of seeing him now. Once I did bump into him, he knew who I was... and was very nice to me... but it was obvious this guy was... bad.
That made me sad. He clearly had a good heart as a teenager... but it was destroyed sometime between 1992-2006.
Still... as crazy and ruthless as he may have become, he cried when my grandpa and grandma died in '07 and '09, respectively. Anyone who cared that much for my family is... well, appreciated.
Today we got a phone call telling us Ivan had been killed last night.
He was walking home, when in a dark corner, someone sprang up from behind him and slit his throat (I can't believe this sort of shit is going down in Hometown... it's incomprehensible). No one heard anything... someone just found his dead body in the morning.
Now, I can remember him as the heartless psycho who would beat people nearly to death over something as simple as an accidental "dirty look"... or I can remember that guy who would make me smile with silly rhymes.
Me quedo con la flor.
Saca la flor.
Eres mi amor.
I don't have much difficulty remembering all the occasions people were mean to me. Those memories still haunt me, obviously.
However, every single time a person has been kind to me, or made me smile, has remained in my memory even more brightly. They're the memories I rush back to whenever I try to get out of the darkness I often feel.
As a kid, I can honestly say adults were more responsible for making me cry than making me smile.
But there was one kid... well, I call him a kid now, since I'm 25 and anyone below the age of 25 is a kid to me... he was about 16 or 17... he'd take the time out of his day to make my seven-year-old self smile.
He was my grandpa's peon. No one would hire him because he was an out-of-towner... and Hometown people have always been weary of those people. Grandpa, however, aways took pity on those travelers and gave them work at his farm.
This guy, Ivan, had become Grandpa's right hand man. He'd be responsible for driving Grandpa around, and once the work hours were over, Grandpa would let him take the truck and drive around to find himself a girlfriend.
I'd often see Ivan, since back then, we spent more time at Grandpa's place than our own, 'cause Mom's a huge scaredy-cat and hates being alone.
Back then, all us little kids would play in the bed of Grandpa's truck, because that's where his dogs would chill.
Anyway, whenever Ivan would come down from his house to meet up with Gramps, he'd bump into us and start chatting us up.
I'd be the shy kid, in the corner furthest away from him, petting the dogs, not saying a word. He'd move back to where I was, and each day, he'd try and make me smile.
He'd give me pointers on what to say to the boys I liked... or he'd "share" a secret with me... like telling me which girls he liked, then he'd tell me what a hard time they were giving him.
I thought he was cute... but obviously, he was way older than me, so it was one of those platonic things. He knew it, but he was always very nice to me, and would treat me like his baby sister.
One particular day, I was mad at my siblings and cousins for being assholes because they tattled on me for not eating breakfast (sometimes, I just don't feel like eating... and this always pisses people off. I don't get it), which made my grandparents scream at me, and Mom force-feed me.
I was outside, crying while playing with some kittens, when Ivan came over to me with his hands held together as if he was holding something small in them.
He told me to "open the box." Abre la caja.
I acted as if I was unlocking it with an imaginary key.
He opened his hands like a book.
"Take out the flower." Saca la flor.
I looked at his empty hands... but acted as if I was picking up a flower.
"You're my love." Eres mi amor.
I blushed. He smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes.
I smiled immediately... a bashful smile, but it did make me forget about all the fuckery going on around me.
I believe that was the last summer he worked for Grandpa, since he moved to the U.S. and we lost track of him.
It was probably 2006 when he was back in Hometown, deported for drug trafficking.
When I saw him again, he was a hardened criminal.
He had a new nickname, "Chiquilin," something similar to "tiny" but a name given to him as an oxymoron, just like the actor Tommy "Tiny" Lister.
Everyone was scared of him... because he was a beast. He could (and would) fight two guys at a time, and he'd still have the strength to fight two more.
He'd fight dirty, too... he'd break bottles and cut people... that sort of shit.
People were told to avoid him, because random shit would set him off.
Since I live three houses away from the town's Cantina, I'm forced to bump into all the drunks of town before getting home.
Although I had lovely memories of Ivan, I was scared of seeing him now. Once I did bump into him, he knew who I was... and was very nice to me... but it was obvious this guy was... bad.
That made me sad. He clearly had a good heart as a teenager... but it was destroyed sometime between 1992-2006.
Still... as crazy and ruthless as he may have become, he cried when my grandpa and grandma died in '07 and '09, respectively. Anyone who cared that much for my family is... well, appreciated.
Today we got a phone call telling us Ivan had been killed last night.
He was walking home, when in a dark corner, someone sprang up from behind him and slit his throat (I can't believe this sort of shit is going down in Hometown... it's incomprehensible). No one heard anything... someone just found his dead body in the morning.
Now, I can remember him as the heartless psycho who would beat people nearly to death over something as simple as an accidental "dirty look"... or I can remember that guy who would make me smile with silly rhymes.
Me quedo con la flor.
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