你爷爷去世了。有天清晨很早的时候，爸爸到我房里来说。他不在了，说完，他好像自己才听到这个消息一样，人像件外套一样皱缩起来，哭了。我勇敢的爸爸哭了。我从来没看过爸爸哭，不知道该怎么办。
我知道他要走了，他会坐飞机去墨西哥，所有的叔叔婶婶都会去那里。他们会拍上一张黑白照片，在摆着白色花瓶的墓地边，花瓶里插着长矛状的花束。在那个国家里，人们就那样送别死者。
因为我是最大的孩子，爸爸最先和我说起，现在轮到我来告诉别的人。我会解释为什么我们不能玩耍。我会告诉他们今天要安静。
我的爸爸，厚厚的手掌沉沉的鞋，黑暗里疲惫地起身，蘸水梳头，喝掉咖啡，平日在我们醒来之前就走了的爸爸，今天正坐在我的床边。
我想要是我自己的爸爸死去了我会做什么。于是我把爸爸抱在怀里，我要抱啊抱啊抱住他。
Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Est muerto, 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.
Because I am the oldest, my father has told me first, and now it is my turn to tell the others. I will have to explain why we can\'t play. I will have to tell them to be quiet today.
My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes up tired in the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks his coffee, and is gone before we wake, today is sitting on my bed.
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.