My Loteria

The large iron gates stare down at me the closer I get. I don’t stop as I cross the entrance. The concrete slabs quietly wait for their resurrection as I walk by them.

In some places, I get greeted by the bigger statues, angels, awaiting their own descent.

Through the shadows I spot the old withered tree. Small, never fully developed with its pathetic branches barely holding on, its leaves long gone. In front of it though, is the small grave that waits for me. It looks the same as it did last year, and the year before that and the year before that. As hard as I try to forget the years that have passed, I can't.

I sit on the grass in front of my abuelo’s permanent home and I glance at the carved letters in front of me.

Isaiah Alejandro Fuentes

Aug. 15th, 1944- April 26th, 2017

“Hey, abuelo” I say as I reach for a cigarette and put it to my lips. Without lighting it, I begin emptying my bag.

When I was younger, just un chamaco, everyday after school my abuelo would wait for me to come home. I would count the 688 seconds it would take me to see him sitting in his red chair. And everyday we would sit together and play la loteria.

I’d always complain that you couldn't play loteria with only two people and his booming laugh would sound out through the neighborhood. Then, without fail, I would proudly yell “Buena!” once I won. I always won. I thought I was the best player in the world and would always tell my friends, my ‘ama, anyone who would listen but I wasn't.

I continue to place the same two loteria cards on top of my abuelos name. I also put the deck of cards, the small candle and the small jar of frijoles along with them.

I look down to check the time. My phone says it’s four minutes until midnight. I grab my lighter to light the candle, and next, my own cigarette.

Now I wait. I inhale the smoke and let it reach within me before I exhale. I feel my nerves disappear as the minutes pass. He’ll be here soon, he’s always here on the day it happened. Everyday on the day he passed, right at midnight, my abuelo is here.

“Hi, abuelo,” I say. I look up and there he is. Mi abuelo Ale with his long curly hair, brown eyes and plaid shirt.

“Hola, mijo” he says with the same loud and strong voice I grew up with.

“You brought my flor again, didn't you?” Abuelo says. “Y quieres otro juego?” he continues without waiting for an answer.

I begin shuffling the cards, “Si, I want to play again” I reply.

“So, anything new this year? Una novia?” he asks.

“Nada” nothing, I say as I stack the cards to one side and begin dividing the beans between us.

“Nada?” he asks, emphasizing the syllables. “Pero, mijo. Ya es tiempo”

“No, it’s not time yet” I say with more anger than I should have. I clear my throat and try again.

“Juguemos,” I urge instead. Playing the game is better, then maybe I can ask him what I really want.

“El mundo” I say as I draw “the world” card and continue going through the next. I draw el musico, el gallo, la luna and so on. We play a few more times, each game ending the same way. We clear the beans at the end and each time, I grab a new cigarette as well.

After some time, I notice the sun rays coming in through the trees, the statues and mi abuelo Ale. I have to ask.

As we continue another game, I stop. I look at mi abuelo, into the same brown eyes as mine.

“I’m sorry, perdoneme,” I plea.

“I have already told you, you don’t have to apologize” he says, his eyes and wrinkled face softening at my words.

“But, abuelo, you know I do,” I plea again. I throw the last of my cigarette with the others and stand, pacing back and forth in front of him.

“I’m sorry” I keep repeating over and over again. I put my hands through my hair and pull. All I can picture is my abuelo in his red chair, watching me leave.

“No te tardes, mijo” he yelled after me. Don't be late.

I didn’t say anything back, just waved my arm and ran towards my truck. I was so caught up in my friends, other careless people and in the easy way of life, that I didn’t bother to pay attention to one that did matter.

“Perdoneme, I should have been there” I say through gritted teeth. But my abuelo doesn’t move or say anything. He’s a mere image of what I saw when I got back home. Him, sitting in his chair. Without life.

His last moments were spent waiting for me to come home.

“I’m here now” I finally say as I face mi abuelo.

“Yes, you are but you shouldn’t be. Ya no te necesito, mijo” he tells me.

“Pero, abuelo…” I start, but stop when I hear my abuelo’s whisper as he reveals the next card.

"Buena,” he says. My stomach drops and as the sun fully comes though, my abuelo is gone.

“I’ll see you in a year, adios” I say to the empty space. I take a deep breath and I finally grab the last thing inside my bag as I replace it with the loteria and jar of beans.

I place the Marigold flower on top of the headstone. It’s job for this year is done.

“En el nombre del padre, del hijo, y del espíritu santo,” I say as I cross myself, “Amen.”

I turn and leave, knowing I will be back next year.