The best teacher of life that I ever had was Pato, my grandfather. Since I was a kid, he was my favorite person in this entire world. He taught me the most important lessons, transmitted his passions, and gave a purpose to my life, even if I was too young to realize it back then.

            Wednesdays were designated to visit my grandparents for lunch, usually, only my sister and I. My grandfather Pato used to pick us up from school very punctually in his electric grey-blue car.
He would put his classical music like The Four Stations by Vivaldi, and his favorite artist, Frank Sinatra; although, his favorite song was What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.

            He was an extremely communicative person and loved to tell us a million stories of his life and the people that he had crossed paths with. He would never stop emphasizing how important his relationship was with his brother, especially when they both studied in the military. He would love to talk about his world trips to South Africa, the United States, and the south of Mexico, with his passion for the ocean and snorkeling. He would always tell us about the time when he was a diplomat at
the Irish embassy as a lucky opportunity. He loved his job at Televisa, a huge telecommunications company, and how much he appreciated his boss. He was a genius because he had self-taught 5 languages: French, English, Italian, German, and Portuguese. He could speak, write, and read it perfectly.  

            It was because of him that I fell in love with the power of stories and creativity. We used to make animal cut-outs from paper, and his favorite was the elephant. He had a wild imagination and impressive energy. He had thousands of DVDs and we would categorize them on top of his bed to play Blockbuster, and we would watch them afterwards, all snuggled accompanied by strawberry or chocolate milk. His favorite movies were Jurassic Park, Fantasia, The Sound of Music, and every single one that included
deadly animals like Jaws, Anaconda, and human-devouring ants. Pato loved math and would always try to explain equations or help me with my Kumón homework.

            He loved to watch David Attenborough’s documentaries and show me his collection of National Geographic magazines, while also showing me all of his photography albums. He would illustrate them in such a way that I would immerse completely in his story, and I would beg for him to tell them again. He would take me to museums of Natural History with my grandmother since she is a Biologist, and they were both fascinated by life.

            We would travel all summers to Cancún and it was a must that we would snorkel, where he would take me by the hand with his “tiger claw”, as he would say. He would show me all of the marine wonders, the tranquility of the ocean, and how much fun it was underneath the
waves. He loved, loved to eat, and this is not an exaggeration, he would finish
everything on the buffets. He would enjoy it with such pleasure and would always want me to try everything. My grandparents would pack luggage “full of surprises”, where they would blindfold us and make us choose anything randomly. They would whistle a special song all the time, and the gifts were paint, magazines, books, watercolors, and everything we liked. One time, he gifted me my favorite stuffed animal, which was a giant tiger that I would carry everywhere.

            We called him Pato, even though his name was Raúl, because anytime that my grandmother needed help he played dumb. So we would always pick on him with the name, and then, it stuck. My grandfather Pato. I must admit that he loved it. His love language was to write letters, so since I was a child, I also adopted it. We would have to write him letters every week telling him about our friends, problems, and favorite activities. He would sometimes respond back in French, and when we traveled, we had to bring him back a postcard with telling him about our trip.

            But there was a time when he got sick. It turned out that he had been invaded by cancer in his colon. He had to go through multiple surgeries and in one of them, the doctors forgot a cleaning cloth in his interior. He had to be transferred to another hospital because his health was getting worse. He had to be on bed rest all the time, eating flavorless food. My sister and I would visit him to help him with his breathing exercises and give him hope. It was a bit traumatizing for us to see him like that because he lost a lot of weight. His iconic belly was gone and his cheeks were completely sucked, almost without energy. He had always been a very active person because he would go every day to the Spanish Club to swim and play tennis. We would go with him sometimes and he was the happiest. During one of his visits, I brought him a card, hugged him and when saying goodbye, told him:

“Pato, I love you so much, but you don’t need to keep on fighting if you don’t have any strength left,” while I clutched his hand with a “tiger hand.”

“You are my favorite person, you know that? But don’t tell your sister,” he said while making a funny face.

“Of course not.” I laughed. “Goodbye, Patito. I love you.”

Before I left his bedroom in his hospital, he yelled at me.

“Ale, I will not lose my strength!”

Some months passed and he miraculously recovered. 
The color was back on his skin, his smile was on his face, and the
energy to his body. We continued visiting him on Wednesdays, but he had changed his eating habits so he would be healthier. He would love for me to show him my texts and photographs. He also loved when we brought Milka because he would pet her all the time, and he would tell us his anecdotes about his dog Daisy, an Airedale terrier.

            In March 2018, I went on a solo trip to Chiapas with my best friend. We explored every single corner and colorful places. But on my sister’s birthday, my friend, Isabella, woke me up out of nowhere.

“Ale,” she handed me the phone, “your mom is calling you.”

“Hey, mom… What’s up?… Amazing!! We went to some lagoons and ate delicious food… You sound weird… Is it Bongo…?”, I said almost crying because Bongo had been invaded by a tumor on his jaw.

“Oh, honey… I wish… It’s your grandfather… Pato,” she said while tearing down.

“No… what happened?”

“He had a…heart attack… I’m sorry, honey…”

I hung up and started to cry uncontrollably. Isabella was giving me her support and hugging me. I felt very guilty for not having said goodbye, not hugging him one last time nor telling him that I loved him before my trip. Besides, three days before the call, I had a very bizarre and vivid dream.

“Hey, Isa, I had a super weird dream,” I told her as we were having a coffee.

“Tell me.” She said intrigued.

“ I dreamt that I was at my grandfather’s funeral. It was like a military ceremony with all of our family.”

“I knock on wood. I have also been dreaming pretty weird.”

So I went outside to the garden and wrote him a goodbye letter as I cried. I missed him and wanted to hug him one last time. Isabella’s aunt drove us to the airport and gave me spiritual advice on mourning with peace.

On the plane, I had my headphones and was sitting next to the window.

“Excuse me, this is my place. I am asking you to move back to yours,” a bitchy lady said.

“I am sorry, but I have had a terrible day. Would you mind switching places?” I said.

“Of course I mind, that’s why I bought it here.”

I sat next to the hall and couldn’t stop crying. I was an ocean. My head was hurting and my whole face was swollen. Isabella’s parents, Oscar and Clau, picked me up from the airport. They have always supported us during good and bad times. They are like my second parents.

            As soon as I arrived, I got lost in my dad’s arms because he also adored my grandfather, and we both crumbled down emotionally.

“I know, kiddo. I understand.” He said as he held me tight.

We entered the room where his casquet was, but I couldn’t look inside it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want my last image of Pato to be where he didn’t have his smile. He had an amazing charisma and sense of humor. My mom wanted me to speak during his ceremony, but I couldn’t speak without having tears on my face, so I didn’t. She got very upset, but I think she just didn’t understand.

            When they were taking away his casquet, I ran towards it to put my last letter inside. I hoped that he could have my words and love forever. At that moment, I lost all my strength and
almost fell to the ground, but my dad caught me with a hug. I saw my grandmother and we both tore down.

“You were the huge love of his life,” she said while crying. I felt very sad for her
because he had always been her unconditional love. They had been married for more than 50 years. They went everywhere together, it was very rare to see them apart.

            That night, I slept hugging his portrait, and he visited me one last time in my dreams. He was with his huge brown winter jacket, his few white hairs, and a smile the size of the earth, while he waved his hand goodbye. When he passed through the door, everything went white. I knew he was okay, wherever he was.

            A day does not go by where I don’t think of him. I imagine myself telling him about my adventures, I’d love for him to meet Tobi and for them to speak in German, swim in the ocean of Cancún, show him my National Geographic photographic essays, cook for him, and write him a million more letters. Or for him to see how my sister and I became best friends; I think he wouldn’t believe it’s real. What I would give just to have one last hug and being able to hear his laugh. Honestly, I cannot listen to the music that he loved without crying. It’s been around 5 years, and my heart still aches. Nevertheless, each year, we put up one of his photographs on the altar of the Day of the Dead with his favorite foods. It brings me a lot of peace knowing that no one is ever going to forget him. It would just be impossible.