Letter. (original) (raw)

Dear Gilena,

You welcomed me as though I was one of your own even though we had just met. You took me into your home (my taking a near-by hotel room was, immediately, out of the question) and when you said, �make yourself at home!� it was clearly a warm, familial statement of fact, not some worn platitude. Your three boys retreated to their rooms, unsure about the new g�ero downstairs but, that is what boys do. The girls, the cousins from just down the street, greeted me with hugs and kisses on my cheek, like a relative returning from a long and difficult journey. �Hola, c�mo est�s?�

That first meal was quick in coming-comida, there was always food, always someone asking, �are you hungry? Here, let me get you something to eat!� The clank of plates and silverware brought the boys downstairs in a hurry. You placed bread, butter, (mantequilla, what a beautiful word!) and cheese on the table even before we sat down. The real treat was the mamey, that Caribbean fruit Papi brought with him from Puerto Rico, carrying that huge block of fruit that looks like some sort of carpenter�s tool, a thousand miles in his suitcase just for us. He knew how much we had liked it that time in Santo Domingo. Remember Vinicio shouting, �Is that mamey?� He had not seen it for a while himself. You made a sort of smoothie with the fruit, mixing it with condensed milk and we all drank it down excitedly.

The next evening you and T�a Nelly, who seemed to be everyone�s aunt, made dinner for all of us. Of course, we had to wait a while for T�a to finish her novela, but when the meal was ready everyone was eager to try the asopao de camarones; such an enormous pot, overflowing with yellow rice, peas and shrimp. Between fourteen people, it was gone almost immediately.

It was during dinner that your husband Vinicio began describing how the youngest child, Alan, had been born deaf, how no one knew for sure until he was nearly three years old. He is still so quiet. He told us of all the new-age technology that the doctors have fixed in and on the boy�s head-the magnets just under his scalp, the electrode attached to his cochlea nerve, the tiniest green light just under his long straight, brown hair that lets his parents and doctors know if everything is working. He told us how, at the hospital before the surgery, you had met another couple with a child with the same condition and they had been included in Michael Moore�s movie, Sicko. But that child had the implant in only one ear-Alan has had both treated. We talked about how the surgeons filmed the entire procedure because it was such a new technology. You told us how Alan, while filling the pool with the garden hose, had pointed to the water then pointed to his ear with his free hand-he was hearing the splash of water for the first time! We talked about the doctors, the expense, the insurance, how the boy will handle kindergarten, which begins soon for him. We talked about the coincidence of timing and opportunity that had allowed the child to receive this near cure. �Only in America� Vinicio whispered to us, to the evening, to himself.

The morning we were preparing to leave for the airport I think I was the only one who was surprised when T�a Nelly, who lives a few blocks away, let herself in the backdoor, taking a rest from her morning walk. There was coffee, there were hugs, kisses and more coffee. There were goodbyes spoken in a language that flows like waves.

Today I am home and I look forward to that time when I can return as the long-missed relative, knowing now that time and distance are no obstacles for family.

con cari�o,
Byron

February 8, 2010 Column
Byron Browne can be reached at Byron.Browne@gmail.com

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