Roberto was so private and modest, so entirely lacking in pretension or need for applause, he would be horribly embarrassed to hear himself discussed in this way.

For my aunt, Esperanza, cousin, Cristina, and all our family, Roberto’s death has meant the loss of someone very rare, delightful, and deeply, abidingly good.

I choose the words carefully, because words are one of the most important things Roberto gave me.

He showed up one day with a present: my first, grown-up dictionary, a big black Funk & Wagnall’s, and he taught me how it worked. Not just how to look up words, but how to actually use them. Roberto explained that I shouldn’t use a word to express its fourth or fifth definition, but instead try to find the word that expressed its first, truest meaning.

He cemented the lesson for all time, making it fun with a game we played looking up words and acting silly or smart, playing with us long after other adults lost interest.

You see, we were children, and Roberto especially belonged to us. We shared him with all the dogs of the world, who also didn’t need words to recognize his gifts. We thrilled to his contradictions, and he to ours. Because his refinement was in direct proportion to his simplicity, my sister Gaby and I were fortunate to learn about Beethoven and bathroom humor, in the same conversation.

He brought Star Wars and Kurosawa to our lives, taught us to eat sushi with chopsticks in the East Village and shimmy up trees to pick sapotes in Miami, bought us Pong, the first-ever video game, as well as a word processor, years before anyone else we knew had home computers. It was Roberto who first introduced me to Hollandaise sauce, as well as to Arby’s and the salad bar at Sizzler.

He had real standards, not those subject to fashion or fuzzy, fourth and fifth definitions. He knew what was what, and he knew who he was, and for us he was exhilaratingly educational.

Cristina, unquestionably the love of his life, had in her father a playmate and protector, a champion and chief justice. During my aunt’s out-of-town business trips, he negotiated a deal: Beba could wear the plastic, high-heeled, Barbie dress up shoes that were forbidden outside the apartment, but only to accompany him while he walked the dog. They belly laughed at the dopiest, most tasteless cartoons together. In the days of finicky eating he chased after her with a piece of fruit to make sure she’d had something fresh and nutritious. I marveled at how he patiently sat with her one day, little as she was, putting together a game and showing her that the first step to anything was reading the instructions.

Always, with Cristina he was easy and tender and caring—always. Watching him with Beba I thought how for some of us parenthood allows the truest, highest expression of self. With his wits and warmth he fed his child mind, body, and soul. It was, in fact, the endeavor to which he was most devoted.

Roberto set to work for the new generation, too, always drawing our kids into the conversation to liven up our holiday get-togethers, but they got to experience Tio Roberto in a way that we hadn’t when we were growing up: from his cell phone while driving the car. Never mind that it’s illegal, or that virtually none of the calls he made were in any way essential, Roberto loved to drive and dial.

For instance, he called to ask us where such and such a restaurant was located, even though he pretty much already knew. Our children understood that the calls were low on information and long on engagement. Through the cell-and-traffic static, he would chat by usually asking questions we couldn’t answer. A personal favorite was a call placed to my husband, Victor, this Spring, when it was still snowing in record amounts. Victor is the family naturalist and tree hugger, and when he answered the phone, Roberto said, “Victor, you’re an environmentalist, tell me, what’s happening with Global Warming?”

He was playful for sure, with a dry, witty sense of humor, but never a clown. He never overplayed the joke or went in for slapstick. It was interesting, actually, to see how so reserved a man could be so jocular and make friends so easily. He fell in smoothly with people, was natural, sweet and friendly without being overly familiar.

His friends span his entire life, from Coqui, his best pal since early childhood, to the kinship between him and the neighborhood doormen, bound together as they were in that secret society of alternate-side parking and off-hours dog walking.

Mustafa, from his coffee wagon, sold Roberto the coffee and bagel he ate every morning in the car while listening to the radio. When he learned that Roberto was dying, he prayed for him, and asked the other neighborhood folks to pray, too.

On the outside Roberto may have been pathologically untidy, seeming always to leave little piles of papers and wrappers in his wake, but his brain was quick and super sharp. Much later, as an adult, I came to admire that stealthy intelligence of his, how Roberto took the measure of a situation quietly, listening carefully to what you were saying, and then he’d typically raise an eyebrow and shoulder and reply in that low mumble of his, with a smile either twinkly or tired depending on the conversation, and his response could be so brief and bright, so subtle and elegant really, that you had no words with which to answer.

I remember my aunt telling me how someone cornered Roberto and began talking about Cuba, prattling on about the revolution, about how wonderful Cuba was, etc. Roberto, exiled from Cuba since 1960, just listened, and then he replied in five words: “Fidel Castro is my enemy.” That was it. The measure had been taken, the final word given without insult but with conviction. It was classic Roberto, heroically humble.

The delivery was always low-key, it wasn’t about winning an argument or scoring points because he never, ever drew attention to himself or his accomplishments.

He downplayed it all—his background, his brilliance, his business. He was traditional, conservative, boyishly charming and fun, a serious man who could be seriously funny. He had an unbelievably strong work ethic, and was tireless when it came to his family business, P.Jamas.

Technically, he was the co-founder and CFO, but really he was a magician, keeping dozens of balls flying in the air, and his sidekick Angela, or Angi as he called her, my mother, had a first-row seat. She was his right arm at the warehouse and also his sister-in-law, but he treated her like a real sibling, showing her the same kindness, generosity, and endless understanding that he did his own brother Arturo and sister Rosi who lived far away.

Together with my aunt, Esperanza, Roberto kept a finely trained focus on work and family. Always, Roberto and my aunt were yin and yang, husband and wife, business partners, friends and adversaries and then friends again—always. They lived through a lot in their marriage, more than most couples because they worked together. Their dynamic was unique, and in the blink of an eye they could go from leisurely doing crosswords to hotly projecting cash outflows. They were quite a pair, their bond secured by shared values and work, by their daughter, Cristina, and by over 34 fully lived years together.

There’s something else about Roberto that means a lot to me, we talked about it once, in that off-handed way he had, where he’d be wrestling with a broken window or taking apart a vacuum cleaner or something, and without even looking at you he’d shrug and impart the most vital kernel of wisdom.

He asked me what was the key to success. I guessed, incorrectly, he kept fumbling with his project, and when I gave up, he looked up at me over his glasses and said: “The key to success is perseverance.”

I cannot overemphasize to those of you here today just how important this was coming from Roberto, how important a lesson and legacy it is for me, and can be for all of us.

You must know this about him: Always, Roberto hung in there—always. He showed up, and he kept going. His tenacity and dutifulness took on a spiritual dimension. I like to think of them as expressions of his love and faith, because he was profoundly faithful, to God, and also to us, not in words, but unassumingly, in deeds large and small. He worked as hard as a man could and then he worked some more. He loved us, his family, exactly as we are. He was a loyal, trustworthy, kind friend.

I never told him that I loved him. I never told him how much he gave me and how grateful I am. We are not demonstrative people. That’s okay. Roberto and I shared countless words, but ultimately he showed that who we are is larger, more substantive than any words can say.

I take comfort that Roberto has returned to the heart of God, though I know he was never far from it, and I treasure the place in my own heart that belongs to him.

Thank you for being here today to remember and honor him with us.