"Love Ya Lots"
Papaw lived the kind of life
that couldn't be measured in years,
though ninety-two was a pretty good run.
Some people leave behind possessions.
Papaw left stories.
When I think of him,
I think of laughter.
A little mischief,
a lot of love.
I think of him insisting he knew all the words to "I've Been Everywhere,"
only to charge headfirst into the fast part
with magnificent gibberish,
a grin that gave away the whole game,
and the certainty of a man who knew
making me laugh was more important
than getting it right.
He was stubborn.
Good lord, he was stubborn.
But he was the kind of stubborn
that built things,
fixed things,
worked through things,
and showed up for people
whether they asked for help or not.
My grandfather loved in disguises.
Not in big speeches or dramatic declarations,
but in the language of gardens and grease-stained hands,
of repaired engines and full plates,
of teasing questions asked from across the room,
because sometimes affection shows up grinning.
His love wore overalls, and in the later years, suspenders.
His love smelled like turned earth.
His wisdom wasn't the kind found in books.
His wisdom was written in calluses.
He lived life like a man who understood
that joy was not the reward for hard work.
Joy was part of the job.
And through it all,
there was Mamaw.
The north star of his story.
I found the letters once—
fragile little time capsules
that somehow survived the decades.
Back when he wasn't Papaw yet, just Floyd.
He started each one the same way,
"Dearest darling."
Updates back when he was in the army.
Reminders that she never left his mind,
in blue ink that somehow still hasn't faded.
On the backs of the envelopes,
she practiced her signature with his last name,
over and over and over again.
Like someone tracing the outline of a future
she couldn't wait to step into.
And when her dementia arrived,
slow and silent as evening fog,
Papaw met it the same way he met everything else:
with persistence.
With patience.
With love disguised as mischief.
He'd ask what she'd eaten.
When she'd last made chocolate gravy.
What happened yesterday.
Not because he didn't know.
Because he hoped she still would.
As if each memory were a bird
and he could coax it back to her hand
one more time.
Maybe that's why it feels right
that he left just before their anniversary.
As if, somewhere beyond our sight,
the woman who once practiced his last name
was waiting for him.
Someone who was still,
after all those years,
his dearest darling.
Ninety-two years is a long life.
Long enough to grow gardens,
to travel,
to become a husband,
a soldier,
a storyteller,
a grandfather.
But verbs suit him better than the nouns ever could, really.
There is a comfort in imagining him now.
The journey finished.
The distance closed.
Finding Mamaw again after all this time,
like one last love letter finally reaching its destination.
If Heaven has roads,
I imagine he's driving one of those classic cars he loved,
windows down,
grinning at the scenery.
And if Heaven has music,
I imagine he's singing along.
Every word perfect,
at least until the fast part.
