Papa Turo: Personal Essay

   It is one in the morning, I am half asleep, and my mind fumbles with this question of why are we able to share silence with a selected few? Share silence without feeling the temptation to break it.

    As I lay on my too thin bed with its broken springs, I remember the old white counters with the edges chipped off. The brown cabinets, that match the color of the typical study desk in the college dorms, are closed. All except for one under the sink that is reluctant to stay open. Papá Turo, my grandpa, has changed from his black work shirt and his black tennis shoes to his white T and his chanclas (Spanish for sandals). They came straight from Mexico and were completely made out of leather. He always changed out of his shoes and into his chanclas (sandles) when he came home from work.

    I stand right next to him, invading his space as I watch him wash a glass cup. He has his own particular way of washing dishes. He scrubs the glass cup filling every single ounce with soapy water. He fills the cup a quarter of the way with warm water and then he turns off the water running from the faucet. He starts to swivel the cup in a circular motion so that the water will move like a gentle tornado hitting every space inside of the cup. He then pours the water out and rinses the outside of the cup until there is no more soap to be seen. I stand and watch as he does this.

    As I stand there sharing his personal bubble, he turns to me and gives me a quick glance and says, “quieres papitas?” (Do you want chips?). I nod with great delight. He always brought chips from work. They were always Jay’s not Lays, Jay’s. I take the barbecue Jay’s. I opened the bag and grab a stool by the tall table which was connected to the left part of the wall.

    I loved sitting on the stool because it made me feel tall. I was not a child when I sat on the stool. I was a peer, and I was tall the way my grandpa was tall. I loved the stool even if it was a bitch to get up there. I weighed too much, and I was too small to get on without a battling the stool.

    I sat and ate my chips. Each chip tasted too salty and never had enough barbecue. The salt always stuck to my fingers where after every three to five chips I would lick my fingers clean. 

    As I sit and watch him wash dishes, I feel the utmost comfort sitting there listening to the soft purrs of the fire coming out of the stove as Papá Turo made his meal for the next working day. He would always, ALWAYS have beans boiling. ALWAYS! And this day like every other was no different. The beans boil on the stove.

From the living room I hear the T.V playing, there is a rerun of Repley’s Believe It or Not! in Spanish.

    Once he finishes washing the dishes, he took two plates from the cabinets. “Tienes hambre?” (are you hungry?), he asks.

    “No,” I reply. I had ate at home, and I just ate a bag of Jay’s barbecue chips.

    He asks me once more but with a sly grin on his face. He rarely ever smiled, “Quieres algo de comer?” (do you want anything to eat).

    I give into the temptation and the teasing aromas that filled my nose, “si, por favor,” (yes, please).   

    He filled my plate with pinto beans, pollo (chicken) from the Mexican grocery store down the street, and steamed vegetables. This meal is his late dinner and is soon to be his tomorrow’s lunch. He gives me my plate, and I move from my towering stool to the lower chair that seemed like a suburban house to my Sear’s tower. I sit next to him, and we eat.

    He relaxes in the chair after a long day of work, and I enjoy the unbroken silence. We sit there and let the time disappear to the later hours of the night.

    I miss that, you know. I miss that unbroken silence where I could sit and enjoy the presence of the person next to me. Sit and feel nothing but the tranquil silence the world has gifted me.