Colombia

I'm sitting here in a run down, low budget hospital, watching my Abuela. She just sits, and holds his hand. She rarely speaks. She has not eaten a thing for 2 days. She's drinking a lot of coffee...to stay awake I think, because she sure hasn't slept. She only leaves his bedside to use the bathroom. I'm not sure what my place is here. I'm not even sure my Abuelo knows I'm here. He thinks I am my mother. I don't even remember my mother. How can I comfort him? This place is a whole other world. These people are alien to me. Except...they are my people. I am not a Colombian. I am an American. That is the only thing that has become apparent to me. It may be my blood, but it isn't my lifestyle, and that is important. You can't just say it, you have to live it. For lunch I had food I've never tasted, but it comforts me. It's called lechona, it's pork stuffed with rice, corn and peas. I'm not sure what makes it taste so good. But it tastes like I should have been eating it my whole life. Eventually I will get used to it here. I feel like I don't really belong, like I am an outsider, but somewhere in me I feel like I am home, so that makes me know that I must belong here. Even though I hardly know them, they treat me like family that has just been on a long vacation. I was welcomed into their home, into the hospital, and into the surrounding community. It's like I've lived here, they all know who I am, I just don't know them. It's like they were waiting for me to return. It's more beautiful than words can describe. The forest is drenched in rain, and the sun shines through. It's hot. It's quiet. This place is like sanctuary. A tiny little corner of the the world, hidden away in South America. Somewhere I can be...just be. It's understandable why my Abuela didn't want to leave. My Abuelo was born here, and he will die here. There is nothing more that can be done to help him. He just rests peacefully. When he is ready he will go. He will leave this world and move on to a place where he won't suffer anymore. Until that time, he is tended to by my Abuela, watching her I feel like I am witnessing the work of a saint. I feel honored. I've been told that I am bringing him comfort by being here. I think though......I am drawing more comfort from this than they are. I'm sure that sounds bad that I can draw comfort from watching my Abuelo die, but that's not it. It's comforting to see that my real family is loving and caring and strong. My foster families never came close to measuring up to these people. It's nice to see with my own eyes that my fairy tale really exists. I'm not sure what will happen when I come back home to New York. I will be different, I know that because I am already different. How could I have missed out on this part of my life!?

I'm sure I will write more tonight. I have nothing to do but sit here in this room, with these two people...my family. We don't talk much and my Abuela seems to like that I am keeping myself busy with writing. She started singing a little while ago and I actually fell asleep in this chair at the desk. When I woke up she was still sitting there in the rocker holding his hand and singing. It has helped that my Abuela is so strong, if she wasn't I believe we would both be an emotional wreck and that is not beneficial for my Abuelo. This blog has also helped. It has taken me all day to write this post, but it's accurate. It does these moments justice.