It's hard to say goodbye or even "see you someday" to someone you've loved all your life. My beloved uncle Gerardo Quintana left my world too soon.
On March 18, I invited him and the rest of my family to come to my home to celebrate what would have been my mom's 86th birthday. When I asked him, "Tio, puedes venir?" He said, "We will be there." As the Quintana Family's patriarch, his word was not only respected, it was followed. That day, the Cosano and Quintana family gathered together for a few hours to stop time and make another memory.
My mom also left me too soon. October 27, 2021 marked a date of deep joy and sadness. Glad that she had stopped suffering, but devastated by her loss and the silence she left behind. Sometimes, I replay her voicemails just to listen to her voice.
My uncle was never the same again after my mom died. Whenever I went to visit him, he'd say: "Como estraño a mi hermana." He missed his older sister, I missed my mom. So, together we'd talk about her—"esos cuentos" that for a moment took us back when our family was whole.
My uncle went to be with the Lord Jesus Christ on June 18, 2023. On Father's Day. How appropriate. I still can't believe just three months ago we were in my backyard reminiscing over good times. The doctors say he died of cancer, and while that may be true, I believe his heart stopped beating correctly on October 27, 2021.
Now, I am sitting by his gravesite, listening to the priest talk about his life as if it were somebody else's uncle, father, husband, brother, cousin, or friend. The service is almost over. Dark gray, rain clouds are beginning to form, covering the sun's oppressive rays. Thunder can be heard in the not too far distance, and I hear someone say, "Bad weather was announced for today." Nothing seems real. My daughter sings a beautiful song, and it's just another reminder. She sang the same song for my mom when I said, "Adios . . . See you someday" by her gravesite several feet away.
I look at the silver casket and I still can't believe what I'm seeing. Surely Tio Gerardo can't be in there? He was so cool. He liked to dress sharp in his Cuban guayaberas. He was like my second father. When I wasn't brave to talk to my father about something, I would go to my uncle's house. He had a way with words. He was also a bit of a writer and a poet, just like my mom, just like my Abuelo Chicho, their dad.
Watching my uncle now, he looks just like him. Angular face, large ears, thin lips, and kind eyes. But there's something that he inherited from Abuela Nena and I did too—our little finger on the left hand has a distinct curve. I remember as a kid how I liked to place my hand over his and watch how our fingers matched. Just like our passion for our family. My mom often said, "No hay nada como tu familia. Disfrutala hoy porque no se sabe lo que viene mañana." She was right. There's nothing like family. We have to enjoy it today because we don't know if there will be a tomorrow.
His, mine, ours—I treasure it today and forever.
"Adios, Tio. See you someday" in heaven.
[I interviewed my uncle for West Palm Beach Magazine's Summer 2021 print edition's cover story about West Palm Beach's 125th Anniversary. The issue was released on July 7, just a few months before my mom went to heaven, and our lives were never the same again.]