Querido Yayo, my grandfather, you started attending Communist Party rallies when you arrived in Sydney, no? Mama remembers watching you on May Day on the sidelines of the march—a little girl seeing her father hold up a flag. From what I know of your politics, you weren’t precisely a communist. I think you joined because finally you could. Australia let you do that. Here, from Franco’s Spain, here were the ideas speaking to you. I remember seeing a photo of you marching. In my mind there is a cigar in your mouth, but then that’s how I always remember you.

It was the 1960s, the early 1970s. You worked in a factory as a forklift driver for Pepsi, six days a week. The days spent propping up the products of an American company, the nights and the weekends were for family and politics. And there you went, building up your library with books about the Spanish Civil War (a failure) and the revolution in Cuba (a success). Mama remembers you speaking of Cuba in key words: Fidel, Che, la Revolución; for your big eyes bright with wonder, for the books ordered, the discussions around dominos, and your cigars.