Bittersweet.

I woke up.

The sun was glaring at me from in between the blinds. I thought, for the millionth time, how I needed to get either black blinds or light blocking curtains. That’s one reason I love waking up in a hotel: the ability to block the sun feels like a good way to block the world while I get myself together.

I slid my hand under my pillow. My cell was never too far away from me.

10:10am.

I put down my phone.

10:10am. What was I doing this time 5 years ago? I hadn’t rehashed the details to myself in a long time.

I had heard the news by then, but I didn’t know who the victim was.

I was working at a bank at that time. It was a quiet morning at work. I’m pretty sure the sun was out then, too.

I had been reading the local news stories when I found it. An unidentified man was found lying on the sidewalk with his blood streaming down the street. It was by the corner market and across the street from a family member’s house. Every time I drove by the house, I looked at the black and white painted bricks of the front wall and reminisced. My father’s uncle owned that house, and I had blurry memories of visiting as a little kid.

That same black and white wall was in the background of the news clip I kept replaying that morning. The brutality of the scene was shocking, even for a shit city like ours.

My assistant manager was the one who said something first. “Have you guys been reading the news?” she demanded.

I spun around in my chair. “I have. But, what story are you talking about?”

“One, you’re supposed to be auditing.” Damn, I thought. It’s always a trap. “Two, no, this story about the guy who was found dead in the street. This is crazy.”

“Yea, he got hit pretty hard, I guess. I’ve never heard them used the term ‘bludgeoned’, that’s an intense term. I’ve been sitting here worrying because that neighborhood is all family.”

The assistant manager’s head snapped up. “Oh, really? Well…I’m sure everything is fine. People pass through that street all the time.”

“Yea, that’s true.” Only, it wasn’t true. I tried to shrug off whatever it was that I was feeling. A murder like that wouldn’t happen to someone I know, I thought. Trauma like that doesn’t happen to me.

It was cold.

I was waiting for the bus across the street from the bank. I thought to myself, for the millionth time, that I had to work on getting my driver’s license. At least, the sun was still out.

The bus was packed, so I had to stand. As a teen, I never had an issue standing on the bus. It felt like with every year I kept losing bits and pieces of my balance. I had the overhead bar in a fierce grip with my left hand and had my cell to my ear with the other. I’m usually able to get a hold of my husband after work and talk to him for a few minutes, but he hadn’t returned any texts or calls for a good half an hour now. I wasn’t worried, I was pissed. My anger always gets the best of me. I told myself to get out of his butt. I scrolled through my phone for a playlist to listen to, and put my headphones in.

Half an hour of being jerked around, and the bus finally made it into my town, and still no seats were available. Both arms were sore, and I was starting to get nauseous from the mustiness. No matter what the weather is, the buses are funky as hell.

The music on my phone stopped and a ringtone started playing. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw my husband’s face. I smiled. I tore the earphones out of my ear and answered his call.

“Hey, stupid, where you been?”

“Hi, love. Um, you’re going to get a ride from downtown.”

His voice warmed me up like a shot of hard liquor. “I get to see you?”

“No, your father is going to be waiting for you. He has your sister with him.”

I frowned. “Why are you telling me this and not him?” The words rolled off my tongue slowly.

He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“What? WHAT? What the hell is going on? Why didn’t Papi call me?” There went my fuse again. Several cuss words and questions later, he told me.

“Nando died.”

My entire body got hot. My mother’s brother, the token “gay uncle” in my family. He taught me about confidence and loving life; he taught me happiness and joy, about there being good in the world despite feeling drowned by bleakness.

My Nando.

“Fuck.” Saying this brought my head back on my shoulders and my body back on Earth.  “No, no…you mean, the guy on the news? On the street?….”

“I’m sorry, love. Your father called me and asked me not to say anything, he wanted to be the one to tell you. And you guys have to tell your mother.”

I felt like I couldn’t handle another word from him. “Ok. I’m going to call Papi and see where he wants to pick me up. I’ll call you later, ok?”

“Alright. I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“I love you.”

I ended the call. Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. I looked out the bus windows; we were approaching downtown. I leaned over and tugged the cord. Bing.

I looked down at my phone. I scrolled through my contact list. Papi.

I put the phone up to my ear. As the bus drove to its next stop, I noticed we were passing my father’s car parked on the other side of the road. I pushed my way through the crowded bus, trying to concentrate on not passing out. I ran across the street and stumbled into my father’s car.

My sister was already in the front seat, her eyeliner smudged.

It was silent when I got in. I looked at my father looking at me through the rearview mirror.

He took a deep breath, then said, “Your uncle died today.”

I exploded. “I know, [my husband] called me and I bitched it out of him.”

My father spoke to me with the most emotion I’ve seen up until that moment. “If you’re going to bitch someone out, bitch me out. I told him not to tell you. That is my responsibility. I didn’t want you riding the bus home, losing your goddamn mind.”

“I was losing it anyway because of his phone call!”

“This is not a time to fight. Shut your mouth and think about how we’re going to tell your mother.”

My sister sniffled. “She doesn’t know?”

“Her brother called my phone. That’s how it works, the men get the sensitive information first and process it so that we can take care of the hysterical women.”

I shook my head as if to shake out the argument I wanted to make about sexism in emotional situations.

I started thinking about the things Nando would miss. I had just gotten a new place a couple months prior and had just booked a hall for my wedding reception. “He never even got to see my place…..he never even….” That’s when I burst into tears. From that moment on, we wouldn’t have him for our greatest moments. Nando wasn’t my father, but I always tried to make him proud.

Mami was already at the house when we got there. Papi instructed us to sit on the living room couch; we quietly obliged.

“So, your brother called me today. Uhm…wow, this is harder than I thought it was gonna be.” He paused, took a deep breath, and ran his index finger and thumb under his eyes. Was he crying?
I watched my mother’s eyes go wide. She is a worrier; all you have to do is say, “we have to talk,” and she starts to hyperventilate. My father was in rare form, and I’m pretty sure my mother stopped breathing for a minute.

He collected himself and laughed desperately. “Wheewwwwww. Okay. So, your brother called me. Nando’s dead.”

Mami didn’t move, but her eyes did glisten over. We stared at her in silence, not sure what she was going to do. The air thickened with sadness and disbelief.

She put her head in her hands. I could hear her saying, “I can’t believe this. This has got to be a fuckin joke. I can’t believe this.” She said it over and over several times. When she stopped, Papi explained what happened and what we knew at that point.

Nando was walking to the polls that Election Day to help with Spanish translations. He was hit from behind with a blunt object and was knocked unconscious; with the amount of blood on the street, we were assuming the he died from the blood loss.

It was believed to be an attempted robbery, and the police were investigating a theory of it being part of a pattern of other robberies in the area. We would later learn that it was an isolated incident.

We waited, unsure of the next move.

“Does Mami know?” she asked.

Papi nodded.

“Okay. So we have to go see her.” She got up and grabbed her purse. When we didn’t immediately follow, she gestured to us wildly. “Let’s go.” The three of us got up and followed my mother like ducklings.

After that, my memory is hazy. I have 5 memories about his death from that year: when I was told that he was the victim, his wake, his funeral, my breakdown in my bathroom, and our first Christmas without him. A man was convicted for his murder but is currently appealing that ruling.

I stopped following the trial because, what does it matter? Nando’s dead. He was killed while he was on his way to serve his community. Nothing will ever make that right. There is no justice.

I’ve always been a worrier. But ever since he died, I drive myself crazy fearing that my husband will be killed at the gas station, or that my father will get cancer again and not make it this time. My mother is going through health issues that don’t seem serious, but I’ve cried over that too.

Nando, I miss you, I miss you. I fuckin miss you. It still hurts, and I think it’ll always hurt. I need your laughter, your smile, your positivity, your faith in me. I need your guidance.

Five years. They’ve flown by, but it also seems like a lifetime ago.