The house was a small, two-roomed home with a tiny kitchen and a concrete bathroom with no running water. His grandfather had his own room—the walls painted an inky red and adorned with black and white photos of family members. He lay in bed—legs swollen in pain, an air of sorrow radiating through the house. The television that no one was watching played Mexican news in the background. I grabbed Leo’s hand, squeezed it tight, and he walked into his grandfather’s bedroom. At first, his grandfather didn’t recognize him; he looked confused, and then all in an instant he understood the grown-up, handsome, young man standing in front of him was his grandson.
I stared at the dusty black and white photo of his grandfather on the wall. He was young and handsome; his skin smooth, his hair jet black and distinguished. Below the photo, was a pair of black cowboy boots—ones he had worn many years ago when he could still ride horses and farm the land. Now, he was in his eighties, regal wrinkles marking his dark face, and the passing of time
Outside the small, concrete cottage in their large patch of land, small bean plants had started to grow in neatly tended rows of earth. A group of turkeys crowded around leftover bread and corn. Scattered chickens meandered about lazily, and a dog and her puppy played in a corner. Leo’s cousins explored the garden—dirtying their hand-washed clothes and combed black hair by tumbling around the earth with the dogs, and playing hide and go seek in the bean patch. In all my life, I had never met such happy, charming, and well-mannered children. It was arranged that we would sleep down the road, where Leo’s family owned a brown and white Spanish style house that doubled as a family restaurant. Again, we were greeted with hugs and kisses by a whole new group of uncles, aunts, and cousins. I met countless family members that night. One cousin was a striking beauty, one an artist, another in school to be a teacher—his uncles were real cowboys, and many were farmers.
