OPINION — After my family marked the first anniversary of my grandfather’s passing in September, I found myself thinking about him, my “güelo,” more than usual.
When I think of my childhood, I picture güelo tossing me into the air at the park, the smell of fresh donuts from our Saturday morning trips to the corner store, and the comfort of knowing he and my abuela would always be there.
My parents married young. My father was often on the road as a musician, and my mother worked as a cook in a local hospital. While they worked, my grandparents helped raise me. We all lived in the same home, something that was common where I grew up.
