When Abuelo died I dreamed of him

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I was dead. But I didn’t know for how long. The ethereal wisp of a body gave it away. The easy movement as swift as air was a dead giveaway. I talked to people, and they didn’t talk back. That gave it away too. But it was time that bothered me the most, for it was hard to grasp with my ghostly hands. My past and future were as abstract as a Picasso from the synthetic cube time. I didn’t know where I began or ended, I was just there. In a here, I did not know.

When the winds shifted again, I floated. Or was it a pull? Into a house with pink carnations. I wanted to smell them, but I figured a ghost without a past was also a ghost without a nose. And so I floated, and my body broke into a million ethereal pieces through a door. A peculiar red door, past the pink carnations. And there was a candle by the door. No, not by the door, past the door, and the furniture. A big TV like one I couldn’t afford hung on the wall. Wait, how do I know I couldn’t afford a big TV that could hang on the wall? Perhaps I’m not so abstract after all.

The candle warmed me. The flame so great, it beckoned me. What was that beside it? I reached my fingers towards it, and they slipped through. Not touching a thing, merely flicking the flame. You’re a ghost, I told myself. But only the cat lounging on the corner of the couch looked at me with pity before he turned his gaze to something much more entertaining outside. Some ghost I was. But, I should say, am, because I have no past, or at least not one I know.

I leaned into the air to look at the peculiar photo, past the peculiar door. It was black and white, but the great flame made it blurry for my ghostly eyes. I hovered to the side and cocked what is construed as my face. Here is a fellow with some lines as if he lived a long life on his face. Holding on to a chubby baby with cloth diapers. His arms were tan, and the hairs golden from years working outside. His hair was curly and still black because the grays had not come yet. It was a peculiar photo because it was black and white when everything else was in color.

I left the flame behind and went up the stairs. Because something beckoned me there. It was nice to float instead of walk. My knees would have hurt so much. I stopped and thought, how would I know? Do I know more than I think I know? Should I stop for a bit? To think?

But I didn’t know how long I’ve been a ghost. Perhaps just two days, or maybe two months. I couldn’t stop, because I couldn’t track time. There’s something here I need to know that I know.

Down the hallway was an open door. Light shined from the inside and cascaded down the hall. The spunky cat from long ago shimmied past me, with his tail high in the air, and the same nonchalant stare. He jumped on the bed next to a teenager with a game. No one looked only the cat. The boy with glasses stared at the game between his hands. But his curls, black and puffed, seemed eerily familiar to the black and white man from long ago.

But I shrugged. I didn’t know the boy, and I turned. Perhaps I’ll go to smell the carnations outside and let the wind take me wherever it wants. I heard a heartbeat, and I stopped. I knew it was behind the closed door. The one to the right. I didn’t want to know what was behind the door, but my body broke and led me through the door. It was nothing. A man and his wife in bed. The man watched a minuscule version of the TV I couldn’t afford, and the woman slept. Only black curls and a robust nose peeked from underneath the blankets. Her feet moved, even when she slept. Her heartbeat was peculiar because it danced to a rhythm I knew. But when did I learn this rhythm? How do I know to dance?

She must be hot underneath so many covers. She pushed her arm outside. It was a short sleeve with red stripes and a forearm with hairs like the black and white man. I have seen this woman before. Why do I not know more? I turned to the books piled on her side, Hemingway, Francine Prose, a dark blue Epiphany with a name I did not know. And more books I never heard of. But she reads, oh she reads. Too much. The woman moved and turned. Then she turned again. The big nose, the cupid lips, could it be? And as if the seconds moved back, flurries of tiny thoughts scurried in my head through my eyes. A little girl, and her Mamá with the floral dress, the sun coming down, the iron gate, a book. “Again,” said the tender voice of the most beautiful woman I had ever known. She pointed at another line of words and pushed for more.

It was the longest puzzle I solved. I didn’t know if it was days or months. “I remember now,” I screamed, scratching my throat.

But like long ago, nobody heard my words. The man’s eyes closed as the show played on. My granddaughter tucked her hands beneath her chin and slept.

“I know you. Wake up.” Knowing full well who I am and who she was, I grabbed her arm, the one she left on the outside.

She shook her head and then scrubbed her eyes. Did she hear me? Did she feel me? Before I could think of more, her eyes snapped open and landed on my ghostly form. “Papá, you died two days ago.”