The notation on the yellowing page in my Guatemala photo
album reads: Dear Mario—a little goofy, a
little blind, a lot loved. Mario (go figure a Mayan boy with the name
Mario) latched onto us when we first arrived in his village in Guatemala many years
ago.
Although he didn’t understand English, he always seemed to
know when Bob was goofing and making up silly words. Mario stuck close to our
daughter’s side and served as her protector when she went about the village or
the home for orphans. My last memory of him as a boy was when he held the gate
open for us, tears streaming down his face, as we drove out of the highland
village of San Andres Sajcabaja for what we thought was the last time.
Last week Mario died in a bus accident in Quiche.
