I’d just left a Day of the Dead event when I got the news. Lori called me. The moment she said, “I have some sad news” I knew it was about death.

She proceeded to tell me that our cousin Robert’s 18-year old stepson, Joshua, had lost his life the night before. It was tragic and unexpected.

A few days later, I drove out to Orange County to pray the rosario. I was late and I arrived just as the prayer had ended. I greeted Robert with a long, tight hug. It was the same kind of hug I gave him when he showed up at the scene of my car accident exactly a year ago.

“I’m sorry,” I said and truly meant it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Robert let me go and I greeted other family members there to pray for Joshua. I looked over the flowers, two dozen prayer candles, photos of Joshua with his mom and brother, and tiny stuffed animals placed at the corner of a yard. I read intensely personal notes left from friends and his mom, but stopped as I felt I was invading someone’s privacy.

I drove for an hour and 45 minutes, but was only at the site for 15 or 20 minutes. I said a temporary goodbye to Robert, he’d be at the house in a few minutes to have dinner with my family.

Robert pressed a rosary with purple beads into my palm and formed my hand into a fist.

“Grandpa says, ‘just ’cause you got here late doesn’t mean you escaped praying the rosary.'”

I smiled and nodded.

“Besides, it’s your mom’s rosary.”

I took the beads and put them in my pocket.

“Whenever we would complain about praying before bed, my dad would bring up Grandpa. He says that Grandpa made them pray the rosary every night… and on their knees! Grandpa didn’t mess around.”

Robert smiled.

It was good to see him smile.

My parents wanted to name me Veronica. Dad liked the idea of calling me Ronny. They passed on the name after a couple close friends chose the name for their newborns.

Cynthia came to them from a baby book. I don’t know what they liked about it, but just know that it met their primary qualification: it sounded good in English and Spanish (to avoid aCameron/camarón) situation).

They rarely use Cynthia, just as they rarely use Daniel and Laura. I’ve always been Cindy, except when it comes to a place like the doctor’s office or the DMV. Or when I got in trouble.

I didn’t think about this much until I read “My Name,” a vignette in Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street in high school. I wrote a short essay and concluded that Cindy fit me better. It was short, bouncy and casual. Conversely, Cynthia was too long, formal and sounded inherently snobby (only in English, I like how it sounds in Spanish).

I didn’t even consider the meaning of my name. After all, this was well before I fully developed my affinity for the moon and came to really appreciate my prominent lunares.

A few weeks ago, after a great run under the full moon, I came to new conclusion about my name. Mom and dad knew what they were doing.

Cynthia really does fit me (or I fit it?).

“De un año, Carlos.” That’s what’s scrawled on the back of this photo I discovered for the first time in December while scanning dozens of old family photos.

I was mesmerized to see him as an infant long before the family left Salamanca, Guanajuato for south Texas where Grandpa Bartolo worked as a ranch hand. It was years before he had to leave behind his beloved Blue Boy because a dog wouldn’t fit in a station wagon crammed with three adults and seven children. It was before he would scavenge for day-old pastries in the dumpsters outside of a bakery in Stockton and before he and my tío Johnny got to work as shoeshine boys.

It was before he got to East LA and fell in love with the Dodgers. It was at least 15 years before he taught himself to play the guitar, joined the Assumption Church youth group, met my mom and several other lifelong friends. It was 24 years before he married my mom. And 25 years before his first son was born and he moved to Hacienda Heights

It was before his next three children were born and he taught them everything he’d learned about life, faith, music, and responsibility.

Of course, he made mistakes. He admitted them, made changes and beat the odds when the naysayers said it couldn’t be done. And he became someone people — not only his sentimental daughter — admire and look up to.

Of course, this couldn’t be known in 1954.

***

Happy birthday, Dad. Thank you for teaching me what you’ve learned in these past 56 years. I can’t wait to learn more. Love you!