His name was Paschoino Marassi a strawberry blonde with peachy skin and the lightest blue eyes I have ever seen. He was so rudy and handsome. He was skinny and tall, maybe he shaped my idea of male beauty. His hands were long and rough, he was a simple natural man. His hat was of brown felt and smelled like all the things granpa liked. Granpa himself smelled like sugarcane and greens and animal leather, garapa, beer and sweat. At all times he carried a round tiny comb in his back pocket for his thinning hair, and a "nose stick" in his shirt pocket to clear his sinuses.
My grandfather was the most adorable man ever. He was a farmer, so one of his cow's milk was for the poor. A line of destitute people would form in our farm, and he would fill their aluminum milk cans, early in the morning. That was his joy, he was a giver. He was candid, and when he looked at me I felt like not only he knew me completelly but he loved me completelly. He brought joy, usnpeakable joy to my life. When he talked to any other child I would not only get jeaulous but I would pout and try not speak to him. He was my one and only my lovely vovo.
Now here I am a woman of 45 crying as quietly as I can in the kitchen of this flat. I don't want to explain to anyone why I am crying. I am tired of explaining everything all the time. I wont explain these feelings to people that would only think it is silly. I just miss this semi-illiterate man that knew my heart. He was simple with words and not very much appreciated by his wife Julia, they named me after her, my maternal grandmother. She was an intellectual and ran her own school. She knew a lot about alot of things and knew nothing about hearts, specially little hearts, like he did. He wasnt much in granma Julia's eyes, yet he was everything in little Julia's eyes.
If Granpa was still here everything would be different. Even between me and Ceu. If granpa was here I would just let him take care of the problems, all of them, since he died. But he is not. He died on the interstate got hit as he tried to cross from a gas station and go back home. Run over by many tractor traillers. It is a busy interstate between Rio and Sao Paulo. It must have been a horrible nightmare for my grandfather.What gives me some comfort is to think that God, the Holy Spirit, came to my granpa right away, when he probably scared and confused realized he had died. He wasnt a man of cars and speed and trucks and big trips on large highways. No. He was from the slow old world, he travelled by buggy or foot or bicicle.
My grandfatehr did not die saved. But no one preached the gospel to him, because if so he would have accepted. That was the kind of heart he had, he would have loved Jesus much more than I. For that reason I am sure that when I die he will be the first one with open arms waiting for me. Because my God is love. He is full of mercy, compassion and understanding.
1 Peter 4:8 "Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins."
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