Requiem for a Brother

Despite my most desperate prayers,my brother Alfredo passed away recently in Atlanta, Georgia, of natural causes. He'd been

born in Havana, Cuba, on a November 26. He was only two years older than I--perhaps for the first time ever, I was staring mortality right in the face. I could feel its breath, I'd wake up to its presence. How could this be happening? During almost 3 months, my brother had been hanging on to life, going in and out of rehab centers and hospitals in Atlanta. For me, each day became an emotional roller coaster ride, as he showed signs of doing better or getting worse. I'd cling on to any excuse for hope, but it was tough to come by. The hospitals in Atlanta allowed no visits because of Covid. Every evening for almost 3 months, I'd call to hear doctors and nurses drone on about this or that, and suddenly it horrified me to realize what they were saying: that they were doing everything they could, but my brother was dying. His systems were shutting down and toppling one by one, like a house of cards. It was soul-wrenching to stand by as he drifted away, to see him onscreen briefly in one last virtual visit, to hear his last, barely conscious stammers over the phone,then, one night later, receive pained condolences from the hospital staff. At our age, Alfredo could have lived several more years, but he never stopped smoking and he had a bad heart (that he chose to ignore). In the end, it just gave out. I thank the fates that Alfredo enjoyed a rich and varied sojourn on this earth. He had a PhD in languages. He worked for nearly a decade at CNN in Spanish as a producer and on-air talent, then went on to a busy and diverse career as an independent Spanish-language broadcaster. He also spoke Russian fluently and interpreted for former Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young on city trade missions to Russia. His personal existence was at least as meaningful. Many now call to tell me how much they miss him and how in their hearts, they're honoring the memory of this kind, joyful, generous and outgoing man. Alfredo liked to entertain and bring people together on special occasions, or gather with them at the various Atlanta restaurants he favored. His dry intellectual wit engaged and delighted his friends. Although he never had children,he touched many lives, serving as moral support and inspiration to those who needed it, leading groups of young Cuban exiles who sought to explore their roots in Cuba, educating me, his sister, in the literature of our native culture, even serving as a surrogate father to the progeny of a deeply troubled single mother he'd befriended. I'd often hear him complain about her with loving exasperation--and I understood that he'd come to view her as another sibling. They both lived in Atlanta and I was way up in New York, so it heartened me that he had found a second sister in this woman, who was also a writer and about my age. Over the years,he helped mentor and raise her two girls to successful,independent adulthood as cinematographers, and today they consider themselves his beloved god daughters. But perhaps the most important life he touched was that of his lifelong partner, Jose "Riqui" Alonso, the love of his life for over 50 years. Riqui, a school friend of mine, met Alfredo at my parent's home in Miami, while visiting me. Both men were in their early 20's and never separated from that date until the present. They were officially married in 2014, in another Deep South State where gay marriage was sanctioned at the time. Sadly, their last few years together brought a measure of estrangement. It happens. They'd each suffered heart attacks and become partially disabled, their routines turned considerably harder, tinged with bitterness and recriminations. Today, their story comes full circle: the widower plans to go back to Florida and spend his remaining years closer to his own relatives. The little house in the woodsy neighborhood of Northeast Atlanta, the one they inhabited for over 40 years will no doubt be sold,

its many memories folded, packed and removed to make room for new lives and hopes and tears. So it goes. Alfredo is survived by me,by a younger brother, and by my son, who is also his godson and bears his uncle's proud name.