Part 7: Pan Dulce Para Petra (Sweet Bread for Petra)

As if you couldn't tell by now, my favorite stories always have my grandpa and grandma in them.
Those were the best days of my childhood.  I love sharing these stories with you all.  I don't mean to make anyone cry or feel sad.  These are just glimpses into my life growing up.  I had two of the best people I had the honor of knowing.  My grandparents were as poor as church mice, but, they were the happiest people I knew.

       This story begins after my grandmother passed away.
__________

       As far back as I could remember my grandpa would always get Pan Dulce for my grandma.  Her favorite were the "Pink Cake" as she called them.  My favorite were the "Marranitos" (little pigs).  My grandpa never forgetting to get those two very important types in each trip.  Of course you can't leave out the conchas!
      I can recall the morning after my grandmothers funeral.  It was very somber and very quiet in our house.  The usual smell of that 5:30am coffee woke me as it had done every morning before that since the day I went to live with them.  That dark roast taunted me.  I felt very confused by this because for so long I always thought it was my grandmother who made the coffee each morning.  For that brief moment before I walked into the kitchen I expected to see her there waiting for that coffee to finish brewing, as she lined up coffee mugs.  The mugs were a deep ivory color with brown specs and had a single orange-brown flower on them.  She always put her the spoon in the cup to the left.  That one was for me.  They liked their coffee black, I like a little bit of milk and sugar.
       I stood there in that kitchen, seeing here sitting there, but I knew she wasn't.  Before I could get too lost in that moment, I hear my grandfather open the front screen door.  It startled me because it stole me from that daydream.  It pulled me back to reality.  Not without good cause...  There was my grandpa with our pan dulce.  He walked though the living room and into the kitchen to meet me and to place the pan dulce he had just bought into the glass cake platter that sat on the table.  He did it the same way he did it every morning prior.  I didn't disturb him or ask him what he was doing, I already knew.  He poured the cups of coffee and sat them at their usual spots.  The one thing that felt different was he was never the one who called my uncle Moe to the table so it felt kinda empty, so I called for him.  As if he had been waiting to be called, he pounced into the room. 
We sat there as we normally did, when she was there. 
My grandfather told her his plans for the day, like he always did, when she was there.
He put her "pink cake" on a small plate, like he always did, when she was there.
He gave her the coupons in the newspaper, like he always did, when she was there.
He laughed with her, like he always did, when she was there.
He put the lid back on the pan dulce, like he always did, when she was there.
He told her he loved her, like he always did, when she was there.


Those mornings were my favorite.
Then there was those mornings when he remembered what happened and why she wasn't there.
Those were the darkest days of my life.
To see the man who brought me so much joy in the deepest, darkest agony.

My uncle Moe would always ask "What's he doing"
I would say "He's having coffee with grandma, they're on a date"
He would look at me and smile and say "I wanna go too!"

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