Rosario Pou

It’s taken me a few days to find the words for this. Likely because there are no words I can string together to do her justice. Last Friday, my dear Abuelita ascended to Heaven at age 95 after a long, full life. She passed peacefully at home and I was at her bedside holding her hand until the very end. It’s all but impossible to properly encapsulate a life that spanned across 10 decades, a 55-year marriage, two children, five grandchildren, and six great grandchildren.

For those of you who don’t know, my grandparents took me in when I was 6, following my parents’ divorce, and raised me. My childhood was filled with their stories of challenges, adversity, triumph, loss, perseverance, and love.

Abuela was born in La Habana, Cuba, on Christmas Eve in 1926, just a couple of years before the Great Depression. She made it only to the fourth grade because her family’s situation necessitated that she, and her sister Herminia, stop going to school so they could earn money to help put food on the table.

At 15, she met Abuelo, Luis Enrique Pou. It was love at first sight, and as she often reminded everyone, “Ese fue el único hombre para mi!” - “He was the only man for me!” They married a few years later and started a family.

Abuelo left Cuba and came to this country in January 1955 with little more than the clothes on his back. He worked as a construction laborer, and scrimped and saved for almost two years in order to be able to pay for passage to the U.S. for Abuela and their then eight-year-old daughter - my mother - Lourdes. They arrived in late 1956, and in 1958, their little family grew when my Aunt Vivian was born. By 1970, my grandparents had built their house, quite literally, from scratch, and by 1972, they had built their second house, also with Abuelo’s own two hands, on the same property. While Abuelo toiled in construction work (he continued working until he was 73 - no joke), Abuela was a homemaker, eventually taking care of each of her five grandchildren at one point or another.

Abuela poured every ounce of her energy into her family…especially her grandchildren. School and learning were always a top priority for her. She proudly reminded me that she taught me the colors as well as how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. She’d practice spelling with me over breakfast and taught me how to read and write in Spanish. She’d walk us all to school, often to our chagrin, but in retrospect, I wouldn’t trade those walks, and the storytelling to and fro that went along with them, for anything.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that for all her love and compassion, she suffered no fools. If you knew Abuela, then you knew exactly where you stood with her at all times. She loathed the notion of hypocrisy and let me tell you, if she didn’t like you, she made damn sure you knew. In my youth, her brash, don’t-hold-back attitude was absolutely mortifying. (Think Lady Olenna Tyrell, but with Spanish profanity.) But as the years progressed, I grew to both appreciate and admire the brutal honesty with which she approached literally everything. Her sharp and salty tongue would put a drunken sailor to shame and she always got a laugh out of everyone in the room (except, that is, for the unfortunate schmuck who happened to be the object of her ire).

If I wanted to lIst all the wonderful things about her that I’ll miss and the dear memories we made together, I could write for days on end and still be nowhere near being done. She’d go with me to watch movies that I wanted to see despite her often having no clue what was happening on the screen. I remember being distraught after watching The Empire Strikes Back and trying to console myself by saying that Han Solo was still alive, to which she responded “No, que va. Ese está muerto.” - “Nope. He’s dead.” And when I pointed out that Lando said he had survived and was in perfect hibernation, she was quick to retort: “Lando? El traidor? Le vas a creer a el? Olvídate. Está muerto.” - “Lando? The guy who betrayed them? You’re gonna believe him? Forget it. He’s dead.” I remember her initial surprise (which quickly turned into a sadistic chuckle) as she watched Toht’s face melt at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I remember arriving early to the theater to watch Return of the Jedi and her trying to sneak us into the showing that was already playing so we could get more bang for our buck. Of course, she opened the door right at the moment when Luke reveals to Leia that he’s her brother. I immediately pulled her back out and we waited for our showing to start.

She was always the first to call on my birthday and every call began with her singing her off-key “Happy Berr-day, Jou Jou.” She never missed a single one. This year she sang to me for what would be the last time, and in person, no less.

For many years, she was my Wednesday lunch date. I’d get to her house in the middle of the day and she’d be blasting her Latin music and dancing in her living room (or on the front porch - she didn’t care who was watching). She loved music and dancing. She said it kept her young…and it did. I remember fondly all the random times during my childhood when Abuelo would take her hand and they’d just ease into a slow dance together for no reason other than they were alive and had each other. Those memories still warm my heart to this day. And it provides some consolation, at least, to know that after all these years, they’re finally reunited and tearing up the dance floor once again.

Guárdame un baile, Abuelita. ❤️

Rosario Pou, age 95, of Miami, Florida passed away on Friday, April 22, 2022. Rosario was born December 24, 1926 in Cuba.

A visitation for Rosario will be held Friday, April 29, 2022 from 10:00 AM to 1:45 PM at Caballero Rivero Woodlawn South, 11655 SW 117 Ave, Miami, Florida 33186. Following the visitation will be a burial at 2:00 PM at Woodlawn Park South, 11655 SW 117 Ave, Miami, Florida 33186.