Most of us expect little children to cry. My grand-nephew, pictured here at the age of seven, was a fan of the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua and he spent much of our viewing time telling me about the roles of the different dog breeds. He was impressed by the German Shepherd, who was a police dog. His favorite part of all was when the Chihuahuas in the Mexican state they were named after all began to “bark like Rottweilers.” Bella, his very own Chihuahua, was so young that her ears were still floppy.
His mother and I took him to the park so he could ride his bike. We also went out for ice cream. When we were in church, he wanted to sit in between us so he could be near me as well. I kept telling him I was only in Santo Domingo for a short visit. Still, on the day of my departure, he pleaded with me, ¡Ay mi tía, no te vayas! (Don’t go, Auntie!) Upon seeing the packed suitcases and the taxi at the door, he ran sobbing to his room.
An hour later, he was playing with his ball and Bella the Chihuahua.
I saw my grand-nephew again after two years. He was almost as tall as I was, and he informed me that in Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2, “they had lots of babies.”
Two days after Christmas, I would visit Pedrito, the young man whose picture I had taken in Maplewood Rose Garden that summer. He had come to my hometown for a firefighters’ training and I was impatient to see him again. Had I given birth to a child at the age of 20, Pedrito could be my son.
I could only stay a few days. When this strong young man was moved to tears, I was lost for words.