Day # 225 - Remembrance

I came home from a long day wanting nothing more than to sleep. It was not to be. Even as I write this, I feel overwhelming guilt that I am making this about myself, believe me, dear reader, this is not about me. It is about loss and pain and the strange, inexplicable beauty that is the world, even if that beauty is often tragic and ugly.

I was at the table when my phone rang. I normally wouldn't have answered it, but I did. It was my cousin Sergio, telling me something terrible had happened. He was nervous and unsure of what to do, and then so was I.

I called my mother for confirmation; she hadn't heard anything, so all I did was make her nervous and unsure. Eventually we received confirmation: they're not with us any longer.

My cousin, Ana Rosa Hurcades Hernandez, her husband, Victor Hernandez, and their daughter Victoria, were in a car accident in North Carolina. Rosi and Victor are no longer with us, Victoria is in bad shape and in the hospital. This is all anyone knows at this point.

Vicky was in a serious car accident a couple of years ago that left her with a titanium rod in her back and unable to walk. Hope springs eternal and I refuse to accept that she will never walk again; more importantly, she refused to accept that. Her brother, Danny, was not in the car. Last night, he was in the hospital and they wouldn't allow him to see his sister. Eventually we learn she is being moved to a trauma hospital that can better deal with her injuries, a fracture in her hip and one in her neck.

It's hard to explain the feelings one has at a time like this without making it about one's self. I don't want to do this, but I have become so dependent on writing each day that I don't know how else to deal with this. There are two more angels in heaven this morning.

Victor was someone I idolized as a kid. He was very knowledgeable in his work, neat in his appearance, and dedicated to his family. When my cousin married him, he became my cousin Victor. I was in Junior high at the time, he drove a monster truck. He was like a god. I never told this to anyone, but I wanted to be like him in many ways. He married at 28, I decided that was the perfect age to get married. He bought a boat, I decided I needed to own a boat some day. He worked with his son eventually. So did I. I guess I never thought of him as a hero, but in a sense, to me, he was. It goes to show you never know who you're going to influence, you never know who's watching, so always do your best.

Ana Rosa, Rosi, was so much more than a cousin to me, she was like a sister. She took me under her wing to try and straighten me out when I needed straightening out. I remember when she worked at Citizen's Federal Bank on 49th Street, where I opened my first Passbook Savings account. I remember when she got my dad and me tickets to a Dolphins game and we beat the Baltimore Colts 19-0 at the old Orange Bowl. I remember her picking me up in her yellow Mustang and taking me to her house to tutor me in math. I remember crying at her wedding. Every family has a rock and Rosi was definitely a rock for us. She was strong, she was good, she was an amazing person. Even now, I see pictures of her in the photo album of my memory: skinny, with long, stringy hair, freckles, and carrying baby me like a proud sister or even a mother. This is so unreal, I can't wrap my head around her not being here anymore.

A tragedy like this one is impossible to explain. We can't explain what we can't understand and human beings, unwilling to accept our limits, will throw out every cliche, i.e. things happen for a reason. It may be true that things happen for a reason, but this doesn't make them easier to accept. I found myself regretting not spending more time with them when they were still here, choking on my regret, only to realize I was making this tragedy about myself and not about who it is really about. This is about two kids in their twenties, this is about a mother burying her child. This is about a family left with a hole in it. This is a period of mourning and remembrance, which will be followed by acceptance, and if we get it right, we will be able to celebrate the beauty and the brilliance these beloved friends brought to our lives.

It would take a lifetime to find the words I am looking for here, so I will use the words of Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune - without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

In the end, all we have is the memory of those we loved. We open the photo albums and we share the stories, and we laugh. We remember how a life was lived, not how it was ended, or that it ended much too soon to satisfy the longing and the need we have for the smiles, the voices, the laughter. We celebrate a life and a legacy, we appreciate the good in the departed. In the end, we are left with hope. We are left with the expectation of a reunion in heaven where we will once again embrace our loved ones and laugh with them. Where there will be time enough for all of us to express how we feel, and there will be no room for regret.

Make the most of your time, friends. God bless you and protect you.

- Adolfo