My grandfather, Vic Flores, passed away today. I can't express how much I already miss him. Fortunately I got to see him right before he died and I was able to tell him I loved him and his last words to me were, "Don't be afraid, go."

His was the first death that I truly experienced. I always expected that in this situation I would be the strong one - I have spent years in social work in the child abuse field and am adept at handling high-stress situations. This week... I melted into a pile of weepy mush.

I nicknamed him 'Papa Chickens' when I was a child. I felt that there should be a way to differentiate between my two grandfathers, so, they got nicknames. I named him for the the chickens he had in his backyard up in Concrete, Washington. I found out a few years ago many time when I came to visit he hadn't been keeping chickens, but would rush out to buy some the day before my arrival so it didn't shatter my childhood vision of him. It worked - the name stuck... and that's what I called him up through his last days.

Mi abuelo es de Costa Rica. He joined the Air Force and toured through Europe, met my grandmother in Scotland where my father was born. They traveled the world and ended up moving back down to Costa Rica. When my father was around my age he came up to Pacific Northwest for work and brought his family with him. I like to think my art is inspired by these worldwide wanderings.

Love you Papa Chickens!