Rum & Coke

-Cheers!

From the abstemious corner of my mind I can summon the distilled memories of a distant century and after navigating oceans of different spirits, if I had to chose one instance on my relationship with alcohol and not turn this story into a medical record, I’d probably take comfort in one soaked in dark rum and framed by the blinking lights of a Christmas tree.

This memory runs from a garden of colorful cayenne, through a busy parking lot in a gated community and up the stairs of the building entrance, veering to the right to knock on the white door marked as “D” where a smiling wrinkled granny opens up her arms to squeeze the adulthood out of her grandchildren even just for a moment or, like in my case, for the whole stay at her house. House is a loosely used term for the current dwelling of my mom’s mom. She used to live in huge custom built houses with several levels, backyard, inner gardens and enough rooms and bathrooms for her 8 children and the army of maids she directed. Those were the good old times, when the family extended beyond the bloodline and on any given holiday the food would pile up buffet style, higher than the stacked gift boxes around the tree and the liquor and the soda would flow in amazonic volumes. As time went by, it became more and more of a task to get everybody home for Christmas or even home at all, my grandfather passed away and at least half of the attendees moved out of the country. The gatherings got smaller, to the point where no one was really expected to knock on the door anymore, the lavish feast became a simple tray of the Colombian holiday staples, ordered from a nearby caterer, since the maid can only be afforded sporadically and for a few hours to clean up and do the laundry. The rivers of varied libations became sparse half-bottles here and there and the coca-cola crates that served as pillars for my childhood fortresses turned into a lonely plastic cylinder on the door of a tiny fridge and our mere presence was the gift. But one thing remains inalterable through the ups and downs: the traditional bottle of Ron Viejo that my mom always shared with me regardless of age, along with the lesson that is not your ID what gives you the right to make your own decisions and be responsible for the consequences. The visits grew scarce, from the annual pilgrimage to special occasions only to “let’s see if I can make it next year” and before I could begin to comprehend not spending this special occasion in a summer dress and sandals, 10 years passed since we last sat at the shrinking dining table, three generations of stubborn opinionated ladies, talking the night away over the commotion of the fireworks and the monotonous holiday tunes, telling the same old stories that never fail to make us laugh until we cry as dawn breaks and it’s time to pack up and say goodbye again.

I’d trade the last chunk of this ungrateful liver to claim my chair at that table once more, walk as many blocks as needed to fetch our favorite elixir, mixer and munchies, knock on the white door with my foot and call out to my mom to give me a hand with the bags while my grandma yells her blessings overseas on a rotary device that has been a heirloom since phone numbers had four digits. I’d even throw in a kidney too to bring the fourth generation along, if not for the rum, at least for the coke and the memory of a Christmas stripped of the consumerist cloak down to the true meaning of being blessed with a loving family.