Papa Passed Away

 

                The telephone rang as it always did. It even had the same pitch, too lazy to make note of the importance of the message on the other end. A naïve teenage girl ran to answer expecting a naïve teenage boy to be on the other end. But it wasn’t. Instead the girl’s aunt answered her hello and asked to speak with her mother.

                “She’s not here right now,” I informed her, “but you can try her cell phone.” That young girl was none other than myself. It was July 24, 2004, and I was fifteen years old.

                “How’s Papa?” I asked my aunt.

                “He’s not doin’ too good, honey.”

                We soon said our goodbyes and ended the conversation. It had been a few days since I last had seen my grandfather. He was in the hospital for cancer again, only this time around the doctors didn’t know exactly where it had spread or how much there was. Being the ball of optimism that I was at that age, I had convinced myself that everything would be alright. After all, it always was.

                 My grandfather had been in the hospital several times before for battle wounds, heart attacks, gallbladder surgery, and prostate cancer. He always flirted with the nurses, joked with the doctors, and gave them a dose of his contagious smile. The man had survived World War II as well as the Korean War. One would think that battling cancer would be an easy bridge to cross in such a person’s life. Yes, I had grown quite used to seeing Papa in a hospital, but it began to dawn on me that this was the first time he actually seemed sick.

                Paul A., as my grandpa called himself, was the best father I had ever had. He was the kind of person that could light up any room and find a friend in any living creature. He was always there for me, or anyone for that matter, to offer advice or just an ear for the person’s problems. No matter the situation, Papa always looked on at the world with optimism, kindness, and compassion.

                My grandparents lived the greatest love story I had ever known. They wore matching outfits to church, held hands in public, and kissed quite often. I grew up on their stories of when they first met in the general store run by my grandmother’s father. Papa would usually go in to order a coke and hang around casually vying for my grandma’s attention. (She was the quiet girl in the corner with her nose stuck between the pages of “Gone With the Wind”.) His nickname for her was “monkey face”, and though she wasn’t particularly fond of the name, she gave little effort in changing it. The walls of their house are adorned to this day with pictures of the two of them holding each other on the day of their wedding. My grandmother’s smile was more radiant than any wedding dress and was matched by that of my grandfather.

                That night, my mom came home with a grim look on her face. It seemed as though the world around her had stopped turning and a shadow filled the space around her. Her eyes were red an puffy- evidence that she had been crying.

                “I have something to tell you,” she addressed my sister and I. “I need you to sit down.” Her voice began to quiver as tears sprang to her eyes, “Papa passed away this morning.”

                The words hit my ears and bounced off. I could feel my entire body go numb with confusion, then grief slowly began to sink in. I couldn’t do anything but sob right there in the dining room chair. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could do nothing but cry. My mother came over to hold me as I wept and began to drown in her shoulder. I couldn’t breathe and gasped for air, but it didn’t matter. I began to resent the words “passed away”. There was no point to using a euphemism in describing death. No matter how much make up you put on it, it’s still ugly. It didn’t matter how tightly anyone held me. In that moment I was completely alone.

                That night I went to bed without eating and cried myself to sleep. I was exhausted and possibly dehydrated from the loss of tears. My pillow and hair became drenched and my voice hoarse. I cried out to no one and everyone at the same time wishing that my grandfather would hold me. He was the only person I wanted now, now that he was gone. All night was a night of remembering. Any memory that included Papa sprang back into my mind like a coil wound too tight for far too long. The next few days went much the same way.

                That Saturday my family went to the funeral home for the “viewing”. I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced such agony. Every person that passed by had to shake my hand and say, “He looks good.” He didn’t look good. Papa looked like a manikin that had been painted one to many times. There was no glimmer in his eyes. They were closed, now and forever. I didn’t actually look into the coffin until the last non-family member had left the old dusty building. At first I was determined not to look, but finally found the courage to go over to where the man that I loved the most now lay. But it wasn’t him that I saw there. It was only a body, an empty vessel, laid out to represent the man that once inhabited it. I began to cry harder and sat down in a chair next to a yellow wreath of flowers. There were so many flowers. It was something my grandpa said always showed how much a person was loved- the amount of flowers at their funeral. On a table next to me were pictures of the family. Those of my grandparents’ wedding day were there as well, mocking the happiness they used to share and would never have again. Soon my tears blinded my sight and I gave up on trying to see. I just sat in that chair grieving as I had when I first heard about Papa dying.

                The funeral was held the next day at Rock Hill Friends Church- the church of my grandfather’s childhood as well as mine. There were two preachers there to give a hopeful message and exchange stories about Papa. The church was overflowing with people. Many had to stand outside the doors and struggle to listen to what was said inside. Many of the words reached them without ever reaching me. I was lost in thought, in memory, in heartache. My grandpa had always wanted me to sing at his funeral, and I couldn’t. Instead my least favorite singer in the community got the honor and nearly ripped my heart out with her rendition of “Amazing Grace”. That was our song. I didn’t want to share it. I was supposed to sing that song for him, not her. Then I remembered when he promised me that he would dance at my wedding to show his love. Now we had both broken a promise.

                The funeral progressed outside after the songs. My dad and uncles carried the casket away to its resting place. I felt as though I was the only one that realized it wasn’t my grandpa that they were carrying. “Taps” was playing as we followed the “Paul”-bearers to a green canopy out in the cemetery. I had walked between the headstones of that graveyard many times as a little girl. I never imagined one of them bearing the name of my grandpa. I barely remember what happened outside. It began to rain at one point and so the crowd began to dwindle as shots were fired by three veterans holding rifles and my grandmother was given the stars and stripes folded into a triangle. She seemed much calmer than I.

                After the funeral we all went back to my grandmother’s house. A feast awaited us on the small kitchen table. All day that day and the day after people (some of whom I had never met) came out of the woodwork to bring their food and condolences. I sat in Papa’s seat during it all, trying to be sociable, but there were too many memories and stories floating around the room to keep my cheeks dry for very long. It was good to be with family, though. I don’t know what I would have done without knowing that someone else felt the same way that I did, even if they didn’t show it in the same manner.

                Later that week, I went with my mother to my great-great grandmother’s 95^th birthday party. She was blind in her old age, but had pictures of children on every wall and every piece of furniture in her house. Nothing made her smile grow warmer than to hold the newest additions to the family and hear them laugh. It was here that I realized how beautiful the cycle of life can be. Even though we may lose someone that we love, there is always a new love that enters our hearts and keeps us going. I know Papa would agree and I like to think that he does.

Reviews

[gravitylava]

I love it! great job, really. It's so touching.
-michelle

[Tomás Ó C..]

That is the beauty of life, a new cycle must come to replace the old, and the old must make way to the new...