I still remember those long, arduous nights, the nights where sleep would not cradle me in its soft, supportive arms. Those nights where dreams did not seem to sneak into my mind, and cast me into whole other worlds. Nights were my muscles tensed as if I just ran a marathon, or I fidgeted as though I had consumed an entire box of candy. Those nights are long gone now, but they remain in my mind like a child’s crude family portrait super-glued to a fridge door. Nights like those were unbearable, at least the first several few were. Sometime later, I discovered a way to ease these frightful nights, which would later become my greatest addiction. Before I discuss what it is, I must begin this story by telling you of how these sleepless nights came to fruition, the reasons and events that led to them. My great-grandmother was a very benevolent woman. She would give us young ones candy or food for or miniscule hands to grasp and munch on. My favorite times would be when she gave us bologna and Hershey’s chocolate. After eating that scrumptious meal, we would quench our thirst with Tampico juice, a very sugary and sweet tasting juice that would leave you wanting more. My great-grandmother grew up a very humble and kind woman. She was born in nineteen sixteen, somewhere in Chihuahua, Mexico. Her family moved here when she was a teenager, looking for opportunity in the United States, and to escape the violence and bloodshed in post-revolution Mexico. Even though they did not know even a word of English, they still managed to persevere and find work here in El Paso. This is where she met her husband, my great-grandfather. They married shortly afterward, and had several children, although I only ever met my grandmother. They lived happily for several decades, managing to hang on and raise a family, and stressed the importance of education and learning. Their children all managed to graduate high school, something that had not been accomplished in the family before, and lead successful and great lives. Sometime before I was born, my great-grandfather died. Afterwards, my great-grandmother started helping my parents after they were married, looking for a place to stay. She also helped my mother during her pregnancy, and after I was born as well. My great-grandmother took to doting on me from a very young age, and I became her favorite great-grandchild. As I grew up, I held a special connection with my great-grandmother, but I never knew why. She did not speak any English, nor did I speak any Spanish. However, we managed to understand each other through some almost nonverbal way. I could speak a little bit of Spanish, enough to ask for milk or to use the bathroom, but I was generally considered the white boy of the family.
Even through this nearly astronomical language & age barrier between the both of us, we somehow understood each other perfectly. Whether it be happiness, sadness, confusion, or understanding, there was never a beat lost between us. When she became so old that she could not live on her own, she took up residence in our house, with me sharing the bedroom with her, and that only strengthened our bond that much more. However, no matter how strong a bond between two people is, there will always be a time where it is severed devastatingly. This occurred for me when my great-grandmother left this earth at ninety three years old, in March, 2006, in a retirement home here in El Paso, Texas. To even begin to describe the emotions and thoughts that ran through my childlike figure would be describing that of a person with wisdom decades above my own. It was not the normal whimpering, pouting or tears of a child who had lost something. It was almost cold, controlled and restricted at first. I shed maybe one tear, then….nothing. I did not feel anger, nor sadness, nor grief, but I did not feel acceptance either. My mind was very blank for weeks afterwards, as of right now I can only recall very vague memories of