#almost burst into tears over a lego reel

[stars-n-spice]

Not emotionally stable for this-

My dad who like knows jack shit about star wars and who only ever sends me Instagram reels of Korean recipes and restaurants to try in LA or cat compilations with the annoying ass wheezing or laughing audio over it sent me a reel of a LEGO droid factory that has like moving parts and shit-

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

   “Ay, no chinges!” I nudged Juan’s head off my shoulder, feeling his drool make a wet path down my arm. “I’m just so tired,” he yawned, “between work, the kid’s and Marisol nagging me everyday: do this, don’t do that, be careful. I’m beat.” Juan sighed, as he laid his head back on my shoulder. “Nope! Not happening today,” I exclaimed shaking his head off my damp arm, “you’re not using me like a pillow, I don’t want your drool all over me…makes me look like I’ve been walking around the city in 100 degree weather,” annoyed, I looked around hoping no one would look at the patches he already left behind. But no one seemed to notice or care we were having a minor quarrel in the back of the bus. “Ah man. What happened to my sweet baby brother Jaime,” he cooed, echoing mamá’s sugary voice, “who would do anything for me? Mi niño tan hermoso!” he flashed an over the top smile and blew kisses—I couldn’t help but laugh and roll my eyes. But then his words registered with me and a spout of frustration ran through,  “What do you call this then?!” throwing my hands up quizzically; motioning to the dirty old bus we were in, “I don’t want to be here, you dragged me here. It’s always because of you!”  “You’re here ‘cause you’re a good brother, mijo,” Juan said sweetly, still acting like mamá. “Yeah, yeah. I know,” defeated, I know I could never say no to him, “you’re lucky we’re brothers. If this was anyone else, I would have left their ass on this bus a long time ago.”     Smugly Juan replied, “Yeah. Well, what are brothers for?” He nudged my elbow with his, giving the same mischievous smile he did when he was younger. In the small millisecond of a moment where silence sat between us, he looked different. Serious, almost— his eyes looked much softer, calm. He took a breath as if he had something to say. I stayed quiet, intrigued with what was going to happen next. But just as fast as the mood changed, it went back to normal. “Tú te vas ir al cielo, hijo!” Juan exclaimed in the same sing-song voice mamá has. Laughing, I pushed him away and told him to quit it already. He’s the funny one in the family. Always making mamá and all our Tía’s laugh so hard tears would form whenever he does his Ranchero version of Juan Gabriel to deflect attention away from whatever he did previously that could really get him in trouble. But that’s my brother, always getting into trouble because he would much rather do things his way than follow behind anyone else. And even though he did get in trouble no one could stay mad at him for that long— too charismatic, goofy, ridiculous, maybe even too irritating to leave in time out because he’d be pestering you about when he could leave his room. It was annoying when we were growing up, it still is now, kinda. But not even I could stay mad at him for long. There is something so inviting and whimsical about him, he was loud and said whatever was on his mind but he would do anything for his family; family first. Whatever Juan is doing, wherever he is at, you want to be there too, you want to hear his stories about his travels, you want to see what stupid thing he does next, you want to be his best friend. I’m lucky he’s mine and that’s the way it’s been my whole life. The bus ride is taking a lot out of me, but I can tell it’s affecting Juan even more, he looks terrible. Wiping the sweat off his neck, his antsy legs are bouncing up and down, his breathing is labored and although everything seems frantic as his body is working overtime; Juan’s movements are stuck in slow motion. He’s trapped on two different speeds. I hate it. “What’s up with you?” I asked, nonchalantly, breaking him out of his daze. “Nothing, man. Just tired, why? ” he breathes out a sad excuse of a chuckle. He looks terrible. “Ay no manches, cabrón!” I hate when he lies to me. It takes all my will not to punch that fake smile off his face, “Enough! You can pull that shit with anyone else,” I say between my teeth, “but not me. You don’t lie to me��� if you won’t listen to mama or Marisol, at least listen to me.” What I intended to be a powerful delivery ended up a weak plea. I could’t even look at him, I didn’t want to see another struggled breath or watch his pale skin glisten with sweat. It’s why I avoided coming here in the first place, I didn’t want to piss him off, or make mama worry, I didn’t want to make things worse than they already are. I’m here because of him and I hate it. I hear Juan sigh, softly he speaks, “It’s just hard, y’know? Some days I’m really good and I can hide how I’m feeling. Other days I can barely walk or have the energy to do anything.” He lightly nudges my elbow to get my attention. It’s then that I see his face and how broken he truly is. Eyes sunken in, the sweat has matted his hair, lips chapped. Juan looks at me the same way he did earlier: calm. I just nod, hoping he reads this as a green light for him to continue. “I don’t know why you’re always lecturing me thinking you’re all high and mighty,” Juan deflected, annoyed that the topic of conversation was back on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re always giving people advice and shit but you don’t do nothing with your life,” it was stated as matter-of-fact. No anger or hostility, “You gave up on art because some pendejos said it wasn’t good enough? And now you’re making me feel bad because I gave up?” “No seas mamón, por favor! It’s not the same thing. I gave up on a hobby. You’re destroying your whole life and wasting everyone’s time for no reason!” “If it’s my time to go, then so be it. I’m not gonna start fighting with God!” Juan threw his hands up and moved his shoulders up and down, as if signaling he has truly given up. I looked at him with disgust, rage, frustration— I wish I could slap him, rip his hair out, scream at him, let him know how pathetic his logic is… but I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. It’s as if a stronger force took hold of me and stole my anger with it; bottling it so far away I couldn’t find it, or even be bothered with the quest. I ran my hands through my hair and let my head rest in my palms. I was just as defeated as Juan was. Juan’s damp hand patted my back, “Hey,” he spoke so faintly I almost missed it. “Mírame,” he said authoritatively, “I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry.” he laid his head over my curled shoulders, his breathing erratic and out of sync, his forehead leaving a bigger pool than his drool ever could. Squeezing my eyes shut in that odd moment I felt serenity wash over me. I was seeing snapshots of our greatest adventures: visiting the museums in Guanajuato, going to the city for El Día de los Muertos, making tamales with mamá on Christmas Eve, creating our own little world in the backyard with scorpions and random lego pieces we found, breaking a window in Abuela’s house when we wrestled on the bed; I was seeing a video reel of everything all at once. Glimmers of happiness floating all around me, encapsulating the memories I cherish. “But you know what you gotta do now, right?” Juan mumbled, lifting his head off my back, we both sat up straight. He looked better now: color in his cheeks, his hair was gelled back no longer matted with sweat, he carried that mischievous smile; smug yet charming. He looked at ease. “What?” I said, mesmerized by his sudden turn-around. “Keep drawing. Keep writing. Mamá loves that. She loves how happy it makes you.” “I don’t know. I-” before I could finish my pessimistic thought Juan cut me off. “No empieces, güey! You’re good. Really good. It makes you happy, it makes mamá happy, and you know I love everything you do!” he poked my ribs, “Mi estrella! Mi lindo niño, corazon de mi vida!” there he went again, that ridiculous impersonation of mamá that never failed to make me cringe and laugh all at once. “Stop worrying about what other people will think, do what you love. Make people happy… who knows you could make it into one of the Guanajuato museums,” he winked and wiggled his eyebrows. The thought alone made me feel proud, I flash my best over the top Juan inspired smile. “Cómo eres mamón,” he laughs, lightly pushing my head away. I see Juan’s mouth move, his facial expressions, bold and dramatic, he looks excited. I can’t hear anything. I see his happiness I feel his emotion but I hear nothing. “What? I can’t hear you!” Silence. “Juan! I can’t hear you!” Silence. Off in the distance I hear an unfamiliar voice. Gritty and bothered, “Orale muchacho, ya llegamos!” I’m startled. Jolted, as if someone had been trying to shake me out of a coma. I look to my left, already anticipating to find Juan the culprit of my sudden burst . But there’s no one sitting beside me. “Estas bien hombre? Ya llegamos,” the random voice speaks again. I look up to find the bus driver, annoyed and unamused with me being the last one left. “Perdon, lo siento señor.” I reply, embarrassed and confused. I walk out of the bus and immediately get hit with a sudden slap of reality. Panteón Valle De Los Cedros  the rusted metal sign reads. I sigh, making the somber walk to the familiar headstone. “I miss you Juan,” is all I can muster to say.