wendy-writes

[wendy-writes]

My grand uncle, Juan B. Millon, began a cargo airline called Millon Air in the 1980s I believe. Many of my family members worked there, including my father and grandfather, Rafael Millon. Our company picnics were more like family reunions.

Those were good times. I loved Juan B. very much. You could always tell how much he loved his family. He always had a smile when I saw him.

He is buried in the same mausoleum as my father and grandparents. I always make sure to pass by and say hi to him when I visit.

It is still hard for me to think about them, the leaves that have fallen from our family tree. I know one day we will be reunited, one big happy family in Jesus Christ.

Good night. 💋

[wendy-writes]

I miss my father. He died last year, November 28, 2023. My last holiday with him was Thanksgiving. He was in the hospital, the Miami VA. The family was at my uncle’s house in South Miami. I took a plate for my mom and him. My cousin Y came along for the ride.

We were barely able to get in as visiting hours were almost over. The halls were quiet so our footsteps echoed loudly as we walked. I saw my mom look up from my father’s side. I brought her the food. We greeted my dad as she opened the container to feed him.

He ate slowly, his eyes closed, barely able to chew. He was dying, we all knew it as it was confirmed by the doctor the day before. There was nothing more they could do. He had developed kidney failure a couple of years before. While trying to get him a kidney transplant, he was diagnosed with throat cancer. He had been a lifelong smoker of cigarettes and weed. He managed to stop cigarettes but had just barely stopped smoking weed when was diagnosed.

He was already weak, but we decided to fight the cancer. What killed him was the chemo really. His body couldn’t handle it. It started to break down. He couldn’t breathe without oxygen machines. The dialysis was too much for heart. They could not finish a cycle anymore.

He demanded home hospice. He wanted to die at home. The doctors resisted, we demanded and finally got it approved.

We got the house ready with the hospital bed and oxygen machine. He had to transported by ambulance. They gave him a tranquilizer for the ride. He was delivered November 27, 2024 to his bedroom.

Tuesday morning, November 28, 2024, he woke up, and asked my mom for his cup of coffee, Pilon brand, black no sugar. She went to make it, waiting for it to percolate by the stove, the home health called out to her.

“He doesn’t look good,” he said to her, “you should come here now.”

She went to the bedroom, and tried to wake him up.

“Ricardo, levantate!”

He took his last breathe in her arms.

I had just gotten into the truck he gave me to gov to work when I got her call. The minute I saw her number I knew.

“Mom?” I answered.

In tears she told me, “Mija,he’s gone. “

“ I am on my way, “ I told her, “I will be there soon.”

I miss my dad.

He’s name was Ricardo Millon and he was a bad ass motherfucker.

[wendy-writes]

I remember growing up with a lot of love but not a lot of money. I once told a Spanish teacher I was not going to go on a field trip. She kept asking me why, and I would just tell her I was not going to go. Apparently, she told my mother I refused to go. My mother then asked me why I had not asked her for the money, to which I replied, “Because you are always saying we do not have money.”

She became very quiet. I do not think I ever remembered her saying that again. I do remember going to family parties of more affluent members of the family. I also remember being shunned by their kids. I got along with my immediate cousins, but my other ones really did not make me feel welcome.

I only realized recently how much resentment I still had because of these experiences. I prayed to let it all go and forgive them. We do things for the world’s opinion and forget what is important, love and family.

[wendy-writes]

I grew up in Hialeah, FL in the 80s and 90s. In the 2000s, I bought a home there with my husband. I got divorced in 2018 and moved to Broward. It was only then, that I realized how amazingly different my old hood was from the rest of the country. South Florida truly is the hub of Latin America, and Hialeah is Little Cuba.

I am not Cuban by birth, but I was immersed in the culture from very young. By birth, I am Colombian and Mexican. Both my parents came here legally as children. They both joined the Army young to see the world and found each other in a bowling alley in San Francisco.

My father pursued my mother relentlessly and she agreed to marry him. He paid for the wedding she wanted in El Paso, TX. Two years later, I was born in Frankfurt, Germany on a U. S. Army base.

And that is where my story begins.