A Christmas promise.

The azure blue skies on the morning that he was laid to rest were the most beautiful ones I've ever seen. The cold air and the brownish-red leaves covering the grassy grounds were a sign that another Chicago winter was fast approaching. It was the last Saturday of October 1983.

I quivered as I watched the undertakers bury the casket containing the remains of a man who, in life, earned the affection and love of those who knew him; a human being who knew how to face life's adversities with a smile and never refused to lend a helping hand to anyone in need. He was my guide, my inspiration, and my best friend. He was my grandfather.

As I shivered in the cold and wiped away the tears, I thought of my childhood, when I was a young boy growing up in Cuba, 35 years earlier. Political turmoil, terrorism, bombings, shootings, and kidnappings were the order of the day. When the sounds of gunfights, planes flying low, and militiamen marching down the street kept me awake, anxious, and petrified, Grandpa held me in his arms and reassured me that I would be safe.

"Everything win be fine, Junior," he used to say. "Pray and trust in God, and you'll see how peace will return to our land."

Such were the human and spiritual compositions of the man who raised me and assumed my father's role after my parents divorced when I was 2 years old. Grandpa was tan, handsome, and strong, a firm believer in human dignity, family, and God's Commandments.

I was feeling an indescribable emptiness in my soul as the funeral ceremony continued. I knew that I was going to miss him dearly, and thus, I tried to hide my pain underneath the fond memories of our years together. I remembered how he loved the holidays, Christmas in particular, when as the patriarch of his large family, he presided over the festivities.

But holiday parties were not all. There was more to it.

Christmas, to him, meant peace, love, and fellowship. He taught me that every year during the holidays one should do something unique, a special act that will be remembered for the rest of one's life.

I started daydreaming of Christmas Eve 1958, when he and I went to the local farmer's market to buy a pig that Grandma would cook that night (roasted pig is the typical Christmas dish in Cuba). Grandpa was clad in a traditional white "guayabera," a long-sleeve, heavily starched Caribbean shirt that men donned on special occasions and which gave him an aura of respectability.

"Let the 'Doctor' get in front," said some of the customers already in line, showing honor for a most respectable looking person.

Those comments made me feel proud of his company and of the consideration that he received from People who didn't even know him. I could only hope to someday emulate his fine example.

Grandpa, a humble man, thanked those folks for their kindness but insisted in taking his place at the end of the line, where we remained for nearly half an hour until our turn came up to buy a large pig. That morning, on the way back home, we pledged to repeat this outing every year.

"When I grow up, Grandpa," I promised him, "I'll pick you up every Christmas Eve, and together we'll come to the market to buy the pig."

Grandpa, a man of few words, hugged me and smiled. "Sure, son," he replied, " I'll be waiting."

Mortals make plans and fate decides otherwise. Such is what happened to our idea of repeating this seemingly unimportant but meaningful experience.

A week later, Fidel Castro overthrew General Batista's government and our family emigrated to Chicago. Living in a new country, whose traditions and language differed from mine, was traumatic at first, but in time, and, of course, with Grandpa' support and trust, I learned to adapt to my new life and country.

In the early' 60s, Chicago's Cuban community was small, and it was difficult for my family to obtain some of the ingredients needed to prepare the traditional Cuban-style Christmas dinner. Finding an entire pig was virtually impossible, and, thus, year after year, Grandpa and I postponed our mutual pledge to go to the market and purchase the animal. We could only hope that one day our pledge would turn from dream to reality.

The years passed quickly. I grew up, married, and moved to Florida, but neither distance nor the responsibilities of a job or raising a family made us forget the pledge that we made to each other in 1958. Every Christmas we reminded each other that an unfinished business was still pending.

"When are we going to get together and buy the pig, Grandpa? Will we ever find a market that sells them?" I'd ask him.

"We will, son," he'd reply. "We will, someday."

By Christmas of 1982, Grandpa was very old and feeble. That year my wife, children, and I drove 2 1/2 days to Chicago for a holiday reunion with him and other members of the clan. Most of the family members present at the gathering had not seen one another since we left Cuba in 1959.

The day after we arrived, I learned that a grocery store, owned by Cuban immigrants, recently opened for business near my grandfather's house. The establishment, much to my delight and surprise. sold whole pigs like markets did in the old country. Needless to say, I jumped with joy at the thought that finally Grandpa and I could fulfill our pledge - it only took us a quarter of a century!

My excitement diminished and depression struck when I realized that carrying out the task would not be as easy as I thought.

Grandpa was no longer the strong man who years earlier offered me solace and comfort and held my hand firmly. He had aged considerably and now depended on everyone else for support and security. He was weak, almost blind, and suffered from an array of chronic ailments.

Walking was very difficult for him, and the cold weather was not suitable for his poor health. The streets that Christmas Eve were covered with snow and ice from a recent snowstorm and parking was not allowed in the area where the store was located. Due to the inclement weather, taxis were not running, and the only way to get to the store was on foot.

At first I wasn't going to tell him about the store but then realized that he would never forgive me if I didn't give him a chance to carry out his end of the deal. When I finally approached him with the news, he said only two words: "Let's go!"

Even though his frail legs couldn't hold him for long periods of time, he was determined to keep his word. With a superhuman effort, he walked with me from his house to the store, two blocks away. He hung onto my arm with all his strength as we braved the elements.

The guayabera that he once wore with so much pride was now replaced by a dull color fur coat, and none of the customers inside the store volunteered to let the "Doctor" get ahead of them. Nevertheless, I've never felt so much pride of his company as I did that day. We took our place in the line and purchased a pig. On the way back home neither one of us spoke as we pushed a small shopping cart that contained our precious and long overdue purchase.

What could we have said anyway? No words could have described the feeling of happiness that filled our hearts. His hand was shaking as it held my arm, and I saw tears of joy rolling down his cheek. Finally we made it home, but before we entered, Grandpa, swallowing hard and overcome with emotion, said to me: "Thank you son. Now I'm at peace."

I didn't understand the prophetic meaning of his words - eventhough I should have. Perhaps it was my own internal denial of life's realities.

We entered the house, and Grandma marinated and cooked the pig, which proved to be the best all of us ever tasted. Two days later, before my family and I began our long drive back home, Grandpa and I embraced in a long and emotional farewell hug that symbolized a mutual refusal to let each other go. We both cried and wiped away each other's teardrops as we renewed our promise to "do it again the following year." We never did.

That was our last hug.

Junior, say hello to Father Mike," my mother said as she introduced me to the prelate at the completion of the funeral services. Her words brought me back to reality, and I apologized for my absentmindedness. I shook the priest's hand and thanked him for the compassion and eloquence of his sermon. My little son, standing next to me and too young to comprehend the significance of the occasion, held onto my leg as if fearful of the stranger talking to me.

As he patted my son's head, Father Mike looked me in the eyes and said, "You look so much like your grandfather. Pass on his legacy to your son. That will be the best way to remember him. Do that, and you'll always feel his presence in your lives."

I smiled with pride as he turned to greet the rest of the family members gathered there.

I've followed his advice. Every Christmas Eve my son and I look for the best animal we can find. As the saying goes, "History repeats itself."

I'll always remember the moments Grandpa and I spent together, his teachings and support. I'll be forever grateful for the times when he got tough with me. But most important, the memory of shopping for the traditional Christmas dinner pig takes a special place in my heart. My grandfather, through such a simple act, taught me an unforgettable lesson in love, trust, and unity that I proudly pass on to my descendants.

Now, it's I who holds my son's hand and offers him support and confidence in times of fear and toughness when needed. I can only hope that one day, when I'm old and feeble at the sunset of my life, my son will have the same loving memories that I have of Grandpa. Only time will tell if I'll reach that goal, or if I'll fail in my quest of being a good, strong man.