He was born in Santurce, Puerto Rico on June 14, 1953, the eldest of 8 children. He was a scamp as a kid, telling us stories of his youthful exploits like collecting roaches from the gutter and releasing them during his mother’s Tupperware parties to the tune of shrill screams, or the time he got in trouble in middle school trying to return a chair by flinging it to the second floor landing instead of carrying it up the stairs (he was, of course, scolded for it by his teachers). As he grew older he shed some of that boyish mischief, most especially after enlisting in the U.S. Army, where he served for thirty-four years, many of those spent as a vehicle maintenance supervisor. He took his job seriously, though still made room for the occasional prank in the motorpool.
Our father gave without asking or expecting anything in return. He would hem and haw and then open his home to friends in need. He aided strangers out of tight spots, like the time he wordlessly pulled to the side of the road to help someone push their car out of the street and just as wordlessly got back into our vehicle to take us home. If there was a single hint of distress in our lives he was there to get us through it. He’d scold us for feeling ashamed of ever asking for help, because that’s what family is for; that’s what fathers are for. My father’s love was expressed in acts. He was a doer. He taught us all what it meant to be selfless.
We’ll miss his delicious dinners, his gigantic pancakes. We’ll miss the way his hands flew over the head of the bongos, and how he played the güiro with effortless, scratchy rhythm, even though he always refused to dance. We’ll miss how loud he snored and his hilarious, left-field quips, as well as his occasional, esoteric grumblings that took a practiced ear to decode. But most of all we’ll miss his tender, thoughtful presence and the enveloping warmth of his hugs.
Marcelino is survived by his loving children, Omar, Aleksey, and Mikayla; his granddaughter Camille Esther Ávila González; his siblings Ivan, Carlos, Enid Ávila Delgado; Carmen and Vilmaries Lopez; Jose Manuel Bou. He is at last reuniting with his beloved mother Laura Delgado, and his younger brother Raúl. No te digo “adiós” / te digo, “hasta siempre”.
We love you, Papi, forever and always.
SHARE OBITUARY
v.1.9.6