Memories

I have been asked before where my green-thumb was born
and I would respond with, "It's a gift that I don't
even understand." And I don't, for my family is of a
mysterious sort and tend to keep to themselves.

But if I were to pinpoint an exact person, I would
name Gabriel Alonzo Rodriguez. He was a man well known
for his craft. A talented botanist, who had been
raised in Madrid, Spain to a poor, hard-working
widower, who's husband died during the great
Spanish-Franco war, in the name of the republic in
1944.

Gabriel had always been a solitary boy, who would
spend hours outside, whispering to the listening
plants. He had insisted that plants could talk, but
not in words. He spoke their language quite fluently;
an old language that has long since passed, the tongue
having need of words to taste, thus killed a
civilization.

But he had been born in an age of war and Gabriel was
grateful that Spain was not involved, for if it had
been, he would not have made it. As the Second World
War ended, the widower took her child and escaped to
the tropical island of Cuba, but regretted it. Cuba
had fallen under control of Fidel Castro, reining
Communism supreme. The life that Carmen Rodriguez
wished for her child did not make it passed his
eighteenth birthday; they had remained poor and she
had died of Leukemia.

I pause my thoughts for a moment, looking up at the
delicate wooden sign hanging above my grandfather's
greenery. "Casa De Verde," it read, "House of Green."

My grandfather passed away three years ago on this
lonely day in September. He had always been an
animated character in my eyes, with his large, square
glasses that took up half of his face and his dull,
white hair that he always hid under his favorite navy
blue hat that he had taken it upon himself to never
wash.

Entering this greenhouse brought back his memory. The
scent of earth and floral petals hung in every corner
of this place, a scent that can only be described as
him. I miss him.

When I was young, he would sit me on his bony lap (for
he has always been a tall and lanky man, even in his youth) and tell me
stories of his days at camp, a mandatory community
service in Cuba. He had told me of the poisonous
scorpions that hid in your ugly, black shoes and of
the snakes and spiders that covered themselves in the
giant Tobacco leaves. He had enjoyed the camp, mostly
due to the cultivation of vegetables. Anything that
had to do with plants fascinated him.

"I had met your grandmother at camp when I was
sixteen," he had recalled, his thick Spanish voice
soothing, "she knew that the moment I saw her, I had
fallen in love. It took time to win her over, that
Abuela of yours, but I managed to warm her heart and
by the next year we were married."

I had always liked this story the most, it always made
me smile. My grandparents were more parents to me than
my mother and father ever were. They were always gone,
and my grandparents were always there.

My dark eyes looked around the small room, looking at
blooming flowers and growing shrubs. I could almost
picture him. I would find myself just dreaming of him
sitting by his long, wooden bench, bent over at work,
squinting his eyes as he experimented with different
breeds to create unique plants and bold, never before
seen colors; my favorite so far, the blue Romania.

My grandfather, Gabriel Alonzo Rodriguez, had died
also of Leukemia, like his mother had; cancer is
common in my genes. My grandmother runs the small
nursery now, though she lacked his undying passion.

My abuelo had also told me the story of how he and my
grandmother had immigrated illegally to the United
States, traveling from Costa Rica (which at the time
had been free of any law enforcement) through Central
America and pass the Texas-Mexican border. He had
later bought tickets on a greyhound bus, heading to
Tampa, Florida, where other relatives awaited them.

They had my uncle and my mother soon after, my uncle
dying shortly after of pneumonia for he had been a
sickly child. My mother grew well into the American
lifestyle, never forgetting her Hispanic roots. She
married a successful white doctor, after she pursued
nursing. My parents are kind and loving, but they have
never taken the time to understand me.

I took a seat on my grandfathers working bench at the
greenhouse, looking down at my rough hands. I have
been given a gift, one that I shared with my
grandfather secretly for so many years. His love for
gardening has captivated my being since childhood.

And he was right, the plants do talk.