Every Now And Then, The Softest Breath Upon My Skin, I Feel You Come Back Again.
I recently decided that I'm going to college in New York City.
So it's NYU or Columbia for me.
The first instalment to my Multi-Genre Research Project that defines me is complete. It's the short story. Let me know what you think.
The One I Called Papa
As I laid the red rose on the wood of the closed casket, I looked to my right at my brother, my sister, and my two cousins. As the oldest grandchild, I was the leader after which they were to follow, although I, myself, was foreign to this. It was like the blind guiding the blinder through this tragedy. However, they followed my lead, each of them laying their red roses down in a similar manner. With a tear running down my cheek, I turned, and led them back to our family, holding my younger sister’s hand tightly.
From the grass off to the side, I watched as the rest of the family went to say their final goodbyes. The army trumpet rang out one last time. The soldiers folded the flag that now sits on our mantle in the ritual, ceremonial way. I stepped to the side and watched as they brushed our flowers into the grave, and lowered my grandfather’s casket.
My mother said that the flowers would stay with him forever, that they were our parting gift to him. The flowers weren’t the only thing he’d have forever though. In the funeral parlor, just before the casket was closed, each grandchild placed a picture in the pocket of his jacket. A picture of my brother, my sister and I, a picture of his four children, a picture of my two cousins, a picture of him and my grandmother, and a picture of his dog, Bashful, all were placed inside his pocket, over his heart. Each of us would be with him for all of eternity.
As I stood there, my Papa’s casket sinking lower into the earth, I remembered the moment I found out. My dad had taken all of the grandchildren up to our cottage for the weekend, trying to ease the pain of what was happening in the hospital. My mom called us on that Saturday morning and told us there was nothing more the doctors could do. They were moving him to comfort care. Not twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.
I’ll never forget the tone in my dad’s voice as he said, shocked, “He’s dead…already?”
I had known it was coming; I just hadn’t wanted to accept it because I never got to go say goodbye. My mom wouldn’t let me. She said she didn’t want me to remember my Papa the way he was in the hospital. She wanted me to remember him building me my first swing-set. She wanted me to remember that I was the one who gave him the name “Papa” because I couldn’t say “Grandpa”. She wanted me to remember the big-wheel rides and the ice cream cones. She wanted me to remember the good days. The day’s before the cancer, before the meningitis, before the funeral.
As we got back into the black limousine, I looked over at my mother. I could see my reflection through the tears in her eyes. For a second, I was back in the doorway of the funeral home, watching as she said her final words to her beloved father. “All you ever did was love us. I am forever grateful to you for that, and I hope you know I love you too. I love you, Dad.” Then she rubbed her hand across his bald head, and gave it a quick little kiss.
When we first entered the funeral home, I couldn’t look in the direction of the coffin. It made it all seem too real. My baby sister, on the other hand, took one glance and fell to her knees in tears. As I finally worked up the courage to look at my Papa, I saw a scene that will forever be burned into my memory. My Uncle Mike was helping my tiny, just-under-five-feet grandmother up from her wheelchair to see my papa. She stood up, leaning against the casket, and placed her head on his chest. She just laid there, her head over his heart, rubbing his arm. She let her silent tears run off of her face, onto his jacket for a few moments, and then sat back down. As she pulled out her handkerchief, my heart broke.
The final limousine ride was a long, solemn one. The hearse had been a stunning, classic Packard. Papa loved old cars, and he would have been honored to ride in one. However, the beautiful, black Packard hearse that I knew he would have loved was no longer in front of us. There was no need for it to be. It was over. The one I called Papa was gone.
So it's NYU or Columbia for me.
The first instalment to my Multi-Genre Research Project that defines me is complete. It's the short story. Let me know what you think.
The One I Called Papa
As I laid the red rose on the wood of the closed casket, I looked to my right at my brother, my sister, and my two cousins. As the oldest grandchild, I was the leader after which they were to follow, although I, myself, was foreign to this. It was like the blind guiding the blinder through this tragedy. However, they followed my lead, each of them laying their red roses down in a similar manner. With a tear running down my cheek, I turned, and led them back to our family, holding my younger sister’s hand tightly.
From the grass off to the side, I watched as the rest of the family went to say their final goodbyes. The army trumpet rang out one last time. The soldiers folded the flag that now sits on our mantle in the ritual, ceremonial way. I stepped to the side and watched as they brushed our flowers into the grave, and lowered my grandfather’s casket.
My mother said that the flowers would stay with him forever, that they were our parting gift to him. The flowers weren’t the only thing he’d have forever though. In the funeral parlor, just before the casket was closed, each grandchild placed a picture in the pocket of his jacket. A picture of my brother, my sister and I, a picture of his four children, a picture of my two cousins, a picture of him and my grandmother, and a picture of his dog, Bashful, all were placed inside his pocket, over his heart. Each of us would be with him for all of eternity.
As I stood there, my Papa’s casket sinking lower into the earth, I remembered the moment I found out. My dad had taken all of the grandchildren up to our cottage for the weekend, trying to ease the pain of what was happening in the hospital. My mom called us on that Saturday morning and told us there was nothing more the doctors could do. They were moving him to comfort care. Not twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.
I’ll never forget the tone in my dad’s voice as he said, shocked, “He’s dead…already?”
I had known it was coming; I just hadn’t wanted to accept it because I never got to go say goodbye. My mom wouldn’t let me. She said she didn’t want me to remember my Papa the way he was in the hospital. She wanted me to remember him building me my first swing-set. She wanted me to remember that I was the one who gave him the name “Papa” because I couldn’t say “Grandpa”. She wanted me to remember the big-wheel rides and the ice cream cones. She wanted me to remember the good days. The day’s before the cancer, before the meningitis, before the funeral.
As we got back into the black limousine, I looked over at my mother. I could see my reflection through the tears in her eyes. For a second, I was back in the doorway of the funeral home, watching as she said her final words to her beloved father. “All you ever did was love us. I am forever grateful to you for that, and I hope you know I love you too. I love you, Dad.” Then she rubbed her hand across his bald head, and gave it a quick little kiss.
When we first entered the funeral home, I couldn’t look in the direction of the coffin. It made it all seem too real. My baby sister, on the other hand, took one glance and fell to her knees in tears. As I finally worked up the courage to look at my Papa, I saw a scene that will forever be burned into my memory. My Uncle Mike was helping my tiny, just-under-five-feet grandmother up from her wheelchair to see my papa. She stood up, leaning against the casket, and placed her head on his chest. She just laid there, her head over his heart, rubbing his arm. She let her silent tears run off of her face, onto his jacket for a few moments, and then sat back down. As she pulled out her handkerchief, my heart broke.
The final limousine ride was a long, solemn one. The hearse had been a stunning, classic Packard. Papa loved old cars, and he would have been honored to ride in one. However, the beautiful, black Packard hearse that I knew he would have loved was no longer in front of us. There was no need for it to be. It was over. The one I called Papa was gone.