a great man. strong and stubborn.

Standing up strains his lower back so much that nerves scream to his brain in rage. He is seventy-eight and exhausted. His body started to fail him years ago but his mind remained sharp. He maintained his strength for his wife- she needed it as her mind deteriorated. Now she is gone.

I caught my grandfather weeping alone for her. Tears accumulated in the corners of his worldly eyes. His eyes witnessed four sons grow to middle age, two grandchildren grow to adults and a third grandchild recently join our clan. The woeful eyes have seen assassinations and moon landings. These blues eyes, connected to me with blood, grow moist and wet because 2005 (their hardest year) has passed. This year they saw their life partners close for the last time. Although grandfather could barely walk, he was with her every single day until the end. And the end dragged on for more than two years. The second year was, of course, the hardest. Her brain misbalanced to the point that she could not even recognize her dog, her sons and eventually, herself. Whenever she saw him, she smiled and proclaimed his entrance. She always recognized "Joe", even when she didn't know her own name. That is love.

Now, the words, "till death due us part,” rattle in his head and he hangs it low when he is alone. He is alone often and still is too proud to show weakness around anyone else. He is too proud to admit to the painkillers and bi-monthly nerve-killing injections. He is Okonkwo with a variation of fear and I refuse to let him succumb to the same fate as the strong Niger character in Achebe's novel about a strong and stubborn man.

When I walked in the room and saw him hunched over, I looked into his welling eyes and did not know what to say.

Grandpa. Can I get you anything?

No. I'm just restin my eyes. I'm gettin' up in two minutes. Did the Redskins win?

Yeah. I don't really care though. How's your back?

Feeling better [a lie]. So the 'Skins are in the playoffs now?

Yeah. I think so. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?

No [shaking his head and grimacing in pain]. I'm glad they beat the Giants. For some reason, I never did like them.

I miss Grandma too. It's not the same without her.

[Silence]

Stepping off the plane, the light warm weather clothes are immediately saturated. Saturated with cold New England air. Reminders of innocense immediately gush from the small upstate New-York town. The town I visit briefly every year.

The cold air is fresh and fills my lungs. My body must work harder to maintain the appropriate temperature.

It has been four days with two of my family members. My bachelor uncle and my widowed grandfather keep me company, forming three generations of related loneliness. Only, now we are not lonely. Grandfathers frail frame is strong willed. He has no fear of death. He is mentally sharp but missing his wife of over fifty years. He talks about the wastefullness of the war in Iraq and about his travels to Indonesia and Saudi Arabia My uncle ipotomizes loneliness but hides it well, like fear for Okonkwo in a moving African novel about inevitable and horrible disintegration. He has traveled the world via boat, making maps of the bottoms of the oceans, seas and straights.

None of us talk about our personal lives. We comfort each other with work and consideration. I scrape at the ice, uncle cooks the food, grandfather imparts wisdom. This quiet life suits me. The crisp weather, clean snow and complete silence erase the bags under my eyes.

eyes as light as Hawaiian water

A scream would come to be one of the idiosyncracies that caused physical and emotional chemistry. I first noticed it when we hiked to a secluded and private San Diego beach. Huge clouds loomed above and we were sprayed with fresh water from above and salt water below. We maneuvered around the extruded fence and as a rock slipped, she let it out- a slightly high-pitched, giggly scream. Neither loud nor obnoxious. Although, "scream" is not a good word for her sound. My words cannot accurately describe it, but to me, it was attractive and strangely comforting. She was not hiding or holding back. She was showing me herself. She was not like the others. When one of the others burned a duraflame log she demanded to stop it. To stop burning the plastic.

She is different. She is someone I tell my secrets to.

This beautiful girl. She is optimistic and happy to be here. Happy to be alive and happy to have me. She expects nothing besides my genuineness. She does not care what kind of car I drive, only that I pick her up when I say I will. She is always there when she says she will be. She does not like fancy restaurants or fancy drinks. She drinks beer but does not smoke. She wears makeup for just me and often does not wear makeup when we go out. She likes my friends and I like hers.

We jog in Balboa Park. We take walks to nowhere. Her accent makes me smile and when I smile, she kisses my dimple. I kiss hers back.

I taste her and smell her in my dreams. I often think of the words from her language that she taught me. Words like "mooshy".

We are careful not to smother each other but the more I know her, the more time I want to spend with her. There is no one I would rather spend time with on any given day. I sing her songs and think of ways to surprise her.