There's a time to dance

It's been months since I was in the room I last saw my brother in. 

Heavenly Grace funeral home held their annual candlelight vigil Dec. 11 for the families of those who are buried at the park. 

About 50 people showed - some were smiles, others had more somber looks on their faces, but all held the faux candles lit by lightbulbs, in honor of their loved ones.

There was a choir made up of kids anywhere from 6 years old to 13, who sang a variety of spiritual Christmas songs. 

There was a pastor who spoke, consoling the attendees and reminding them that our loved ones live on through us.

While he spoke, the tears trickled down my cheek as I played back 20 years worth of memories with my big brother. 

"There's a time to cry, a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance," he said.

The candlelight glowed on people's faces, revealing the reflection of the tears rolling down their cheeks. 

In that moment I cried and I mourned, but every day I smile as I'm reminded about the wonderful person my brother was.

Icepocalypse

The trip to Dallas for the National Association of Hispanic Journalists conference had been in the making since the summer. It's a chance for journalists to network and for young journalists like myself to land jobs.

It wasn't until two days before the conference that we heard the weather was going to take a turn for the cold - the really, really cold. 

We left on a Thursday morning, but the weather wasn't supposed to be bad until Thursday night. The four of us (myself, Norma, Susan and Elva) arrived safe and sound. But the next morning we woke to the shimmering white, icy streets.

Buildings, cars, plants and all were covered in ice. The sidewalks were slippery and all but one of us was accustomed to this icy terrain, but we ventured off into winter wonderland anyways, and it was beautiful. 

Everything was stock still, not only frozen in ice but almost frozen in time. The ground crunched beneath our feet, cracking with the heels of our boots.

My clothed seemed ill equipped for the icepocalypse as the wind chill stung my body. But the city sights were enough to make me forget how cold I was. 

Rock-N-Roll

Mom and dad were training for a marathon since April. It was supposed to be a family thing. My aunts, cousin, parents and myself were all going to participate.

We were going to run in honor of my aunt who passed away from cancer last year. And when my brother passed away, my parents wanted to run for him too, even though his death wasn't cancer related. 

A few of us stopped training, but my folks kept on running their miles every day. On Nov. 17 they completed their first half marathon, wearing my brother's scholarship button the whole way.

I saw them off at the starting line, amid the crazy costumes and various team shirts. Words of inspiration lined the streets.

"I run for my brother."

"I believe in you, random stranger!"

"I beat cancer and now I'm beating you."

The roads were full of runners and bikers participating in their respective courses for the San Antonio Rock-N-Roll marathon. 

I met my folks at the end. They looked tired and were drenched in sweat as they held hands crossing the finish line. But they finished what they set out to do and I couldn't have been more proud. 

Fender bender

It was production night and Norma and I decided to make a food run. 

The night began to sprinkle. 

I was more focused on my stomach and our conversation about boys to notice the truck backing out behind me. But I could have sworn I checked all my mirrors and blind spots as I reversed my way out of the parking spot.

The music was bumping in my black Chevy Cruze and all I wanted to do was get to Subway.

I was mid-sentence when I heard a thud in the back an my car jerked a little.

"Shit."

I managed to only get in two minor fender benders twice before without leaving more than a scuff on my car, but this sounded worse, much worse. 

I exited my vehicle and made way to the rear, only to find the glass around my right taillight broken. My heart sank.

The sprinkle turned into a drizzle. 

The driver of the truck who was on the other end of the thud, was inspecting her truck as well.

My eyes fell upon a somewhat large dent in her bumper. I was oddly proud that my little Cruze caused such a dent to larger dual-cab truck.

We exchange information and decided it was a mutual accident and went our separate ways.

"My dad is going to kill me," I told Norma as I once again put my car into reverse.

And I pulled out of the lot and into the night, still debating how to satisfy my stomach, the drizzle turning into heavier rain. 

World Series Champs

I sat in the newsroom with my friends and coworkers, watching the Red Sox and the Cardinals duke it out for the title of World Series Champs Oct. 31.

My heart raced with every pitch as if I were a member of the team standing on Fenway Field with the rest of them.

With the final pitch of the final out, I jumped up with my fist in the air, hugging the person nearest me, celebrating along with the Sox on-screen. For whatever reason, the Red Sox winning meant so much more to me this year than other years.

I grew up a Red Sox fan because my brother's city league team always donned the name on the front of their jerseys; my dad was the coach. Poppa text me almost instantly. He was watching the game at home with Mom.

"GO REDSOX!!! WE WON...Champions Baby!!! Just like we used to win with Aaron."

I looked at my phone, slowly sinking back into my chair and my eyes glued to the glowing screen in my hand. In my head I read the words over and over, my eyes steadily welling up with tears.

"Just like we used to win with Aaron."

I hadn't had such a rapid shift of emotions in months and almost forgot how striking the feeling is.

It stops you in your tracks, like getting the wind knocked out of you, and somewhere between smiles, tears break through and it's hard to breathe.

After regaining my composure, I continued a silent celebration with myself, images of the night's  game intermittent with memories of 13-year-old Aaron celebrating with his little league Red Sox.

 
  

The pup that changed my world

I knew she was mine the moment I saw her.

I went to pick up my dachshund from a friend's house, and when I walked inside, there she was - this tiny light brown thing chasing after a bigger, older male dog. Taking after her momma already. 

She was short and stumpy, her little legs scuffling along and floppy ears dangling beside her face. She looked at me inquisitively, and her dark brown eyes had a kind of sadness in them. This weenie dog that was left in a box on the side of the road was mine for only 5 minutes and I loved her so much already.

I named her Dahlinger, after my favorite drummer. Even though she came in a smaller package, I wanted her to have a strong name.

I bought her a cage too big for her size, a pillow meant for a larger dog and leash probably too long for her own good. I spoil the pup, and it shows. 

Dahlinger cries when she's in her cage or tied up outside, her high pitched whines nearly piercing my ear drum and falsetto-like howls almost on another sound spectrum. But she doesn't care if she's  outside or inside, she just wants to be with me. 

This weenie is a curious one, always looking over her barricades and trying to climb over things to get to the other side. 

She is totally me. 

Mosh pit mayhem

My friend and I were sitting at the bar, enjoying the music of A Skylit Drive at the House of Rock in downtown Corpus Christi when the crowd started moshing.

We went to see I the Mighty, who already played, and didn't care to be in the crowd for the other bands.

The music sounded loudly with the double pedal going and the singer screaming incoherent lyrics that only actual fans would be able to understand. 

Karen and I must have been two of only a handful of 21-plusers there because we were outnumbered by those with dark black X's on their wrist.

The miniature pit opened up, and about eight people worked to shove each other back and forth to the beat of the music, as all do in standard mosh form. 

We bobbed our heads to the music, looking out at the crowd on their feet, but in an instant, a girl who wasn't in the mosh, was knocked back on the ground.

She fell in what seemed to be slow motion. I heard the sound of her head hitting the hard ground over the thrashing music.

The crowd reacted. 

Karen and I froze, looking at each other as the girl's friends scrambled to help her up, making sure she was OK.

Once she got to her feet, she rubbed her head, squinted her eyes and held her (I assume) boyfriend's hand. The Koolaid-redhead adjusted herself and continued bobbing her head to the music.