My grandfather watched his mother succumb to dementia. I remember her, Mama Ana. She was present during all the holidays that we spent in Puerto Rico — those that took place when I still thought there’d be a sleigh crossing the heavens along with Sputnik.

I remember the lost look in her eyes … her face and lipstick crested by a sun hat with a lace ribbon wrapped around its brim. As confused as she was, she radiated elegance and warm love, almost apologetic for it. That’s how I felt of her and what remains — the warmth and care that underscored all her worry and terror.

She gave me and my brother a Buck Rogers toy one Christmas. It became part of all the Star Wars and X-men figurines already strewn everywhere at my grandparents’ place. She was, technically, out of it already, and yet … she had remembered or found a way to know what had been in the “now” for her great-grandchildren.

On one of those holidays, my grandfather called me and led me to the Honda Civic parked in the driveway. He buckled me into the passenger’s seat and we drove towards Old San Juan, windows down. We really didn’t speak. I don't know why he called on me to be his companion that day. I spent my bewilderment watching the palm trees passing and the panorama of surf beyond the car's window. It was a cloudy day. It was the kind of cloudy day that might, later, produce a rainbow.

We parked and I followed my grandfather up some marble steps to the second floor balcony of the nursing home. There, my great-grandmother, Mama Anna, was seated on a rocking chair, a hospital blanket over her lap and toes. My grandfather simply stood over her, quiet and motionless. She looked up at him like someone drowning, gasping continuously for that last moment of consciousness.

After a few silent minutes, my grandfather bent over, and gave her a kiss on her forehead. Then he waved me towards her saying, “This is Juanqui, your great-grandson.” She nodded at me with a forced smile and a despairing look. I came forward and kissed her on the cheek.

We left, and I followed behind my grandfather back to the Civic parked under some palm trees.

Years later, I would be walking with him again in a parking lot. This time it was very hot and blindingly sunny. The IV stints were still dangling from one forearm and another hand. The glue of the EKG leads still marking my chest and torso. I had woken up from a three-day coma not long before this.

We walked silently, side by side, for a long moment. Then, he said in English, not Spanish, “They asked me to talk to you. You gotta hang in there, kid. You got it?” He pantomimed a boxer doing a body-blow. His counsel was succinct. I promised him that I would hang in there, and I did.

I had already promised as much to my dad the day before in an open air stairwell of the hospital. He said matter of factly: “I don’t give a fuck what happens to you — whether you wanna throw away your life or not. But,” and he sneered, “You can not do that to your mother! Do you understand?” I said I understood, and I promised I wouldn’t do it while she lived.

At this point, the chances are near zero that I’d do it after she, regrettably, passes away. I don't know how I'll feel about the day that it happens -- the day I will be among those lowering her casket into the dirt. I think it will depend if my dad survives her or not. Whatever arrangements have been made, and I'm sure that those arrangements have been planned thoroughly, I've been left out of the conversation, understandably.

It really hasn't been pleasant. But there have been days when the clouds did, in fact, turn into rainbows. I would've not made it if it hadn't been for her.