When my abuelita fell and broke her hip at age 84, I sat by her hospital bed and watched as my mother and aunt communicated with her by writing words in Spanish on a large pad of paper. She and I, well, we had our system down pat: Winks, smiles, a tight grip of the hand. She seemed to be doing okay, then unexpectedly took a turn for the worse. Over the course of two weeks, I visited her almost daily. Sometimes she’d cry out, “Ay, que dolor,” but she didn’t have to tell me anything. I knew her body language so well that I could see she was dying. If she realized it, she never told my mother. She never said goodbye. But she did, in a private moment the night before she left us, admit to me, “Tengo miedo.” She was afraid. She said other things, too. But that was all I understood. My Spanish wasn’t good enough to figure out the very last words she would ever speak to me.