when i was a kid and my papa or uncle dave would pick me up from school, we'd visit my great grandpa's apartment. there were two things about my great-grandpa that stuck out to me back then. 1, he was very old, and 2, he was very short. the second fact is what earned him his nickname- little papa. little papa wasn't part of my life for very long due to the first fact, but he played a huge role in giving me my first memories. i remember his skin all too well- wrinkly and saggy, but clinging to his body as if it were sewn on. thick blue veins protruding through the skin of his hands. i convinced myself i could hear the blood flowing through them. i would brush my small hands over his face and arms, caressing his veins in the direction i thought his blood was going.
he taught me how to tie my shoelaces while sitting on his brown corduroy couch, the couch that always gave me good dreams when i slept on it. he gave me a fascination with locks, oftentimes giving me a small padlock and telling me to roam around his apartment to find the key. my collection of model airplanes, cow figurines, frog and fairy dolls- all inspired by him and the comforting clutter that was his living room. he was there the first time i experienced human life. the first time i filled my lungs with warm spring air, the first time i admired flowers, the first time i looked at life and realized i was living it.
the universe has a funny way of bringing things full circle. he was there the first time i experienced life, it's only natural his absence brought upon my first experience with death. march 11, 2010. a thursday evening. i was five years old. i didn't quite understand what was going on for the first few days. i only recognized something was wrong when my mama made us all dress up in black to visit him. i saw him sleeping in a strange box- his red lips a stark contrast against his white skin, those blue veins a deeper blue than they should've been. almost violet. i couldn't hear them anymore. i asked my mama, "why is he wearing lipstick?" and my question was met with no answer. it was the first and last time i ever saw my papa cry.
i realized i wouldn't be seeing him again the next time i visited his apartment. the clutter i loved so dearly was packed away in neat boxes twice my size, his corduroy couch covered with a sheer white sheet. i discovered a drawer, filled with variously sized padlocks and keys. they were mine to keep. after my mama properly explained to me what happened, i prayed every night and asked god to tell little papa i said hi.
it's been almost 12 years. i can't remember his eyes anymore, or his voice. i'm not religious anymore, but sometimes i still pray. part of me still believes he's somewhere out there, watching over me. i often wonder what he would think of me. the person i grew to be. i do my best to honor him and the ones i love, but it's hard sometimes. the real world is so much worse than i thought it would be. that's why i always end up back here. reminiscing. remembering. trying to, at least. everything made sense with little papa. i would ask him a question and he always knew the answer. the real world doesn't have answers like he did. tonight as i tuck myself into bed, i'm going to think about that corduroy couch. i'm going to close my eyes, pray really really hard, and hope i wake up there. in a world where everything makes sense.
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