Abuelo pointed to the colt with his pipe, grinning. Lita and Abuelo made rare visits to our home in Northern California. Abuelo's passion was gardening, and he would usually slip quietly outside and gently examine the leaves of the peach and plum trees, the Shasta daisies and the pine cones, in his dark hands. He looked curiously out of place as he walked around the garden smoking his pipe contemplatively. I never knew what he was thinking.
Life become more complicated and our trips to Mexico dwindled and became more sporadic.
Lita and Abuelo sold the motel and moved to a small villa in Ajijic, near Guadalajara. In the jaded way of a teenager, I relegated my memories of Abuelo and Mexico to my childhood. He did not exist for me when I was not in Mexico, and I did not write him. When I was twenty-one, Abuelo died of cancer of the larynx. His beloved, ever-present pipe killed him.