Tio Ignacio

A week ago today, Nacho's uncle Ignacio passed away. He was the first close relative of Elisa and Carolina's to die since my Grandma Mitchell the summer I was pregnant with C. But since she wasn't really cognizant of it at two, I didn't make much mention of what it meant to die. I've written about him here--about what he meant to me as a part of his family. And I'm not sure there's much more to add. He was a character and his absence from the table and summers in Encinar will be duly noted. My birthday will always make me think of him and the years he won't be celebrating with us. 

I suppose there's no good way to introduce kids to the concepts of loss, but I had my chance this week when I told Elisa of Tio's passing. Nacho returned from Spain the night before he died and was working all day long the next day, so it was up to me to share this news. I kept it brief and simple. "You know how Tio has been in the hospital and Papa went to see him?" I asked Elisa. "Yeah." "Well, he died today and we're all kind of sad. It means his body got really old and quit working." A look of surprise followed by "Was he the one who called me bicho?" And my laugh, "Yes. Tio loved you very much and he called you that because he was teasing you." I told her we could always talk about him and if she wanted to look at photos of him we could. She said yes, so we spent a few minutes looking at photos of him before she lost interest. 

She didn't have many more questions, so I let the subject fade. We would talk again of Tio a few times over the next few days. Elisa asked if he was Papa's dad which brought up another conversation about loss. Elisa knows that Nacho's dad died when he was a baby, but since he rarely mentions this, I think she often forgets. I suppose thinking of Tio as his dad made a lot of sense. He was his godfather who helped pay for college and took Nacho along on many vacations with Aunt Pauli. For us, Tio was much like a grandfather figure for the girls during their trips to visit, offering candies and playing with them during long sits around the table. We will miss him most of all when we return to Spain and realize he's not there. For us, a continent away, his absence is an illusion for now. So we will hold on to the memories and the photos and keep talking about him. That's how he lives on, and that's what matters most.