Today marked 10 years since her brother died by suicide. She’d been thinking about what to post on Facebook. That’s what people do – she thought – post everything on Facebook. Birthdays, engagements, anniversaries, trips, memorials. 

She would need to include pictures, but most of the ones she considered to be genuine were taken by their mother when they were kids. There weren’t many pictures of them together as adults. The occasions that did bring them together were few and far between. And if pictures were taken on those occasions their smiles often revealed how uncomfortable they were. Not fake. More like nervous smiles. Smiles that pleaded, “Just hurry and take the picture.” Uncomfortable.

She often joked to her friends that as adults, she and Danny only came together during a crisis. Other people had family reunions. Her family reconnected at funerals where controlling giggles – so they didn’t erupt into laughter – wasn’t always successful. Her family gathered in hospital waiting rooms where they refused to mind their behavior or how loud they spoke – despite their parents’ protests. Extended stays in the hospital counted for the best of times, except maybe for the unfortunate person who had been admitted – usually their mother or father. Yet, even if they were experiencing the worst of pains, it was evident that the parents liked having their children together.

“Aunque no se pueden callar el osico.”

Ah, good times. Good times.

Crises were good – so to speak – for their family because it brought them together as a unit. Because that was when the siblings felt most comfortable with each other. They shared stories. They leaned on each other. They could poke fun at each other with no fear of repercussions. Best of all, they laughed. Not nervous laughter either. They laughed to the fullest degree possible. Grab a hold of your stomach kind of laughter. Laugh until you can’t catch your breath.

But there were no pictures of those times. Who takes pictures to mark the occasion when you are told that your dad has to be sent to a nursing home for rehabilitation or your mother’s staph infection turned into sepsis?

There were two specific events that stood out to her. The first was of a funeral the siblings attended with their father. They were already grown but made the trip home to be with him. She couldn’t remember whose funeral it was, but it was important to him that his children be there.

The protocols for such occasions were ingrained into them as soon as they could talk. Say hello to anyone and everyone. State your full name. State your age. Give a firm handshake. Finally, their father would interject his own descriptors for each of his children. It was a descriptor that best identified that child’s place in the family line.

That was the part they hated most.

None of them liked the Daniel Zavala Rules for Etiquette growing up. However, on this day, the adult children took the bull by the horn and beat their father to the punch.

Soy Carmel Zavala Diaz. Cuarenta y dos años. La grandota.

Yo soy Danny Zavala Jr. Treinta y nueve años. El güero.

Yo soy Roel Zavala. Treinta y siete años. El malito.

Y yo soy Corina Zavala Lopez. Veinte y nueve años. La cuata.

The grown-ass children thought it was funny. Their father didn’t. But that was because he never knew how deep the negative connotations cut into each child’s emotional state growing up. Well, for three of them at least. Danny was assigned the best one. Being called a güero or güera was considered a badge of honor. At least they could laugh about it now. And laugh they did that day, much to the annoyance of their father.

She recalled one time they spent in the hospital when Roel had to have one of his balls removed due to testicular cancer. It was crude way of describing it, but if Roel said it that way so could she. Danny learned that Roel’s testicle had swollen immensely and asked to see it for himself. Roel later claimed he would never forget the ¡A la chingada! look on Danny’s face when he lifted the hospital sheet to peek underneath. Imagine capturing that scene in pictures.

Later as the family sat in the waiting room while Roel was being emasculated, Danny convinced their father they should switch shoes. Danny wanted to prove that his own slip resistant, tactical shoes were better suited for their dad who was on his feet all day as opposed to the Walmart version of Stacy Baldwins he wore. The poor man finally agreed to try on the shoes. When Danny commanded that his father walk up and down the aisle so he could feel the difference, he refused.

“¿Qué va pensar la gente?”

Danny didn’t give a shit. He stood up and started walking. He walked up and down the aisle – again and again – in the generic black shoes that produced a clackity-clack sound on the laminate flooring. Slow at first. Then a little faster. Eventually he broke into a light jog.

Clackity clack. Clackity clack. Clackity clack.

But the kicker was when Danny suddenly stopped in front of them. Looking straight at his father, he extended his arms parallel to the floor and began to tap dance. “Mira. Soy Sammy Davis.”

Cue the laughter. That stomach holding, can’t catch your breath laughter.

“No están más mensos porque no están más viejos.”

In the 10 years since Danny died, those were the Zavala reunions that always came to mind. She told – and retold – the stories to whoever was willing to listen. Sometimes she’d catch herself changing a detail here and there, but the images of those precious moments captured in her heart never changed. They would be cemented there forever.

It was difficult to recreate the essence of Danny with words alone. If pictures were worth a thousand words, she thought, then maybe her tribute today would do him justice.

She wrote 1,010.