You abuelito（1） is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Esta muerto（2） , and then as if he just heard the news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa cries. I have never seen my Papa cry and don't know what to do.
I know he will have to go away, that he will take a plane to Mexico, all the uncles and aunts will be there, and they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase because this is how they send the dead away in that country.
And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.