Naomi Raquel
3 min readApr 11, 2024

Immortality

On this day 50 years ago, April 11, 1974, my Abuelito, my maternal grandfather, took his last breath. I did not yet exist and would not be born for another four years.

And yet, today, I remember and honor my Abuelito.

I often ponder life, loss and legacy. A part of me has always contemplated the mysteries of our borrowed time on earth, but these reflections took on an even greater significance after the birth of my son and the death of my father.

In less than a year, I celebrated the arrival of my only child and mourned the death of my beloved father. My son is now 13 and as I watch him grow and transform, I feel the ache of my father’s physical absence.

And yet, like with my Abuelito, my son knows my father, his Abo.

Growing up, my mother would tell me countless stories about her father, whom she admired and adored. I know that my Abuelito was a language enthusiast, an avid reader, a dignified man who never once saw himself as less than anyone else, and was devoted to those he loved.

Years ago, my mother found a Mother’s Day card her father had written to her when she was expecting her first child, my older brother. In the letter, he named his future grandchildren — “Nicky y Naomi.” (“Nicky and Naomi.”) These are my brother’s and my names. Neither of us had yet been born but somehow, my Abuelito knew we would both exist.

I have always loved that story. He did not write “Nicky o Naomi” (“Nicky or Naomi”), the names my parents were considering for a son or a daughter, but “Nicky y Naomi.”

It was us he etched onto the page, and in part, into being.

As my mother did with me, my son is growing up hearing stories of who my father was. He knows my father loved to take long walks, that he would always say those who read are never bored, and that when his first grandson was born, he would refer to him as “Don Sebastián.”

A month ago today, my mother’s youngest brother, my Tío Miguel, took his last breath. Today, then, not only marks the 50th anniversary of my Abuelito’s death, but the first month annniversary of my Tío Miguel’s death.

I like to imagine that father and son are now reunited just beyond the veil, along with all of our dead.

On this side of the veil, my Abuelito, Tío Miguel and all of our dead, are honored and remembered. Certainly on their funereal anniversaries, but in truth, always.

Every day since my dead left this world, their essence, their light, has continued.

They are physically gone, but they are not forgotten.

Death is inevitable and the one guarantee of our time on this earth.

Immortality as we typically define it does not exist.

I believe, however, that a form of immortality does exist.

My father would always tell me immortality is achieved through one’s children, but I take that one step further.

I believe immortality is achieved through being remembered.

My Abuelito died before I was born, and yet, I remember him.

My son’s Abo died when he was less than a year old, and yet, he remembers him.

My Tío Miguel never had children of his own, but he is remembered.

There is a way to live forever.

It is staying alive in the hearts, memories and stories of those on this side of the veil.

This was my father’s chair. When I look at it, I can conjure him reading in it. Z. He lives.
Naomi Raquel

Bilingual. New Yorker. Multiethnic. Change Agent. Author of “Strength of Soul” (2Leaf Press; University of Chicago Press, April 2019)