“Ready, Dad?”

“Vamonos.”

He’s already had his breakfast, so we don’t have to take it with him to his sister’s house this morning. Un atole – no cinnamon – and half a cup of coffee to avoid spills.

I hand my dad the little, blue carry-all. Cell phone? Check. The white Zavala County Bank envelope where he keeps this week’s winning lottery tickets, but not much cash? Check.

He crams the carry-all between the seat of the wheelchair and his leg. Then I hand him the walker, so he can hold it over his lap as I wheel him out the front door to the SUV.

“Say good-bye to your wife.”

“Adiós, vieja,” he calls out to Mom who is eating breakfast at the table.

“Adiós, viejo. Que te vaya bien. Que te vaya mal. Que te pique un animal.”

“OK Daddy, here we go.”

With a good tug at the bars, I manage to easily get the chair over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. A dove coos in a tree nearby. I rarely notice the sounds around me; my focus is on walking backwards down the ramp without tripping over my own feet.

But Dad does.

“Es la misma paloma que canta todo el tiempo.”

I take his word for it, and reply with a soft, “Hmm.”

On cue, Dad begins, “Cuu. Cuu.”

Now, Dad’s cooing I do notice. I used to find it annoying. Still do. However, the voice in my head always reminds me to let him be. “He won’t be around much longer, and you will wish you could hear the cucú just one more time,” she tells me.

It’s when he breaks into his two favorite lines of Pedro Infante’s Cucurrucucú Paloma that my heart drops – always – because I know he will be leaving me in a few seconds.

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

“Nadie cantaba esa canción como Pedro Infante.” My daddy sings these lines, as they say, “con mucho llanto.” And just like that he’s gone.

“De que piensa, Tío?”

“Tristes recuerdos, Mi’jo. Tristes recuerdos.”

Dad has traveled to another moment in time, a better one. A time when he was happy. When he felt whole. No wheelchair. No depending on anyone, but himself.

“Así me decía mi Tío Tereso cuando trabajábamos juntos. ‘Tristes recuerdos, Mi’jo. Tristes recuerdos,’ me decía.”

Dad manages to get into the SUV with some assistance. I wonder how long before he won’t even be able to spend the day at his sister’s house. When he will have to stay put – maybe only in his bed  – because he can no longer manage the visit.

For some, a wheelchair offers mobility, freedom, and independence. For Dad, la mugre jodida might as well be chains that bind his hands and feet. He feels useless, and often complains aloud about the burden he’s become to his children. Spending the day at tía’s house is Dad’s only saving grace. They reminisce about “la gente con los que nos creamos en el barrio,” watch CNN and Fox News “pa’ ver que dicen del jodido de Trompas,” and watch westerns on the Grit Television network. Tía Luisa is literally the only one left who truly understands my dad.

“Tristes recuerdos,” he grunts as he settles into the seat.

Stopping to catch his breath, he releases an angry, “God damn!” He’s come back to the present, and he’s not happy about it.

As we pull out of the driveway, Dad reaches for the button to close the window. He pauses one last time to call out again, “Cuu. Cuu.”

“No tienes música Mexicana en esa mugre chingada,” he says pointing at the CD player.

“No, Dad. Not the kind you like.”

He looks around the neighborhood as we drive up the street y con mucho llanto he sings,

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

“Tristes recuerdos,” he whispers. “Tristes recuerdos.”