|My uncle and I|
When I was five, my mom and I went to live with my grandmother and uncle for what would have been my final year in Argentina before moving to the United States. During that year I bonded with my grandmother and my uncle (who had been like a dad to me during that year). I had to say goodbye to my grandmother at home before my mom and I travelled from Cordoba to the airport in Buenos Aires. My uncle accompanied us though. The last memory I have of him was a silhouette waving at me from inside the airport as I looked on through the airplane window. I promised myself that I’d find a way to see him, and my grandmother again, but that promise never came … well, not the way I expected anyways.
I’ve encountered people in my life who I’ve considered family back in the States, but they’ve always thrown it in my face how much I wasn’t a part of their family at the first sign of an argument. This was different. These two people … these corpses lying six feet underground are my true family, but they’re gone. Somehow this visit to the cemetery made my return to Argentina a little more difficult to handle, but what’s worse, none of the living family I have seem to care.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ignorant of the fact that everyone had their time to grieve when my uncle and grandmother passed away, but these graves were poorly attended to. It’s obvious that no one has visited their graves in years. As my folks had put It, “Once they’re dead there’s nothing left. The dead don’t grieve, or feel sadness, or happiness, nor do they suffer. Funerals and gravestones are for the living, who out of guilt, tend to the graves to make up for the lack of attention they gave to them in life.”
I’m just a grieving grandson, and a nephew, who kept his promise to return to them, but I couldn’t beat the predator that is time and death.