One morning I woke up to the smell of garlic charged tomato sauce and instinctively raced to the bathroom to wash up before lunch. I raced through the tiny corridor and turned right towards the dining room. Suddenly, the entire family appeared before me, like a Jack in a box, as they marched to their designated seats. There were probably about 6 or seven rows separating me from my grandfather, who obviously sat at the head of the table. .
Sporting his turquoise suit, it seemed as though he just came back from Miami with his gelled back hair and ignorant smile. I couldn't keep my eyes off him, there was something about this old man that didn't quite seem to fit together. Trying to ignore the aggravating sounds of my aunt, who kept on complaining about the lack of enthusiasm her driver has, I tried to understand why my grandfather was especially peaceful that afternoon. .
Plates were racing across the table; dishes were tossed from one end to another and while the men were gossiping about politics and the women about recipes, my eyes, and my mind remained focused on "Grandpa". A tiny bit of sauce landed on his shirt and so his wife leaped to the occasion and started dabbing her tongue on a tissue and wiping it off repeatedly. The expression on his face was one of disappointment; he realized that he was no longer an essential individual to the family sort of like the Queen of England. .
As he slowly walked off from the table with his head leaning down, no one noticed anything, they took it as if he was going to the toilet and coming back shortly. He didn't come back, they finished their rice and fish with the rich thick tomato sauce and all went home. I followed him to his room. He appeared asleep; his back facing the door, in his blue and white striped rob, hoping, that when he wakes up, he doesn't.