Locomotion

My Opa is dying. Like the rest of us, just sooner.

Not very far beneath the surface, he's a true cowboy. He didn't want to leave his home country of Paraguay but, he fell in love with Oma and... well since she was immigrating to Canada with her parents and siblings, Vancouver-bound he a-went. Opa loves to tell stories about his early years in the Colony living off the land, playing in the peanut fields, breaking horses, pranking his friends (and foes), hunting (out of necessity to survive) rogue jaguars and drinking ta-da-daah in the early evening shade. And, he's a stellar story-teller, his legs wagging back and forth with excitement, his convincing tone of dark moments, his quiet giggling-wheezy laugh when someone is about to get it, and the loud clap of his hands when the peak of the story is upon his audience.

Sheesh, I really don't know how to think of my life without this man.

He's fought a handful of cancers and asthma, openly overcome alcoholism, and proven to be the one unflinching source of unconditional love to me. Opa loves me a lot. He loves Birdie a lot. He loves A a lot. He loves each one of his own... a lot. Opa's best quality is his ability to make every single person around him feel as though he/she is the most special person in his world.

How will I refer to 'Oma' now since oma-n-opa is pronounced as one word?

I've let him go in my heart but my future feels incredibly tenuous.

For now I'll keep eating Smarties, laugh-cry at Sylvester & Tweety or Roadrunner & Coyote cartoons, look lovingly at a really big bbq steak (seriously, who knew a steak could be sentimental - particularly for this veggie-head), drive by the DQ on near Earles Street and this time, after driving around the block two times (another long story), I'll stop in and order a vanilla dip cone.