Papa

 I remember the heady scent of pine trees, the crisp aroma of fresh air, and the acrid smell of wood smoke that stained every article of clothing he owned. He was a hearty laugh, a contagious smile, a wise man.

There is such a sad, yet happy nostalgic feeling whenever I visit home. The aging pine trees, the passage of time wearing down the white clapboard siding of his house. The maple tree in the front yard growing and shedding leaves each year, without fail.

So many memories flood me every time. On the wind, I can almost hear the roar of the four-wheeler he gifted my father back in the day, knowing we'd get more use out of it than he. I can almost hear his chuckling as he sat under the shade of the apple trees in his white lawn chair. His legs were always so pale from wearing jeans, even in the summer.

When I'm home, I always glance at his house. Longing fills me with unshed tears. I remember spending my Christmases there, peeking through the windows and waiting for Santa to come give us candy canes and jolly promises. I remember eating around the family dinner table, asking for more gravy – and avoiding the cranberry sauce at all costs. I remember spending nights on the patio, waking up early in the morning and seeing him sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of steaming hot coffee, his glasses on, and the daily crossword lying before him. I remember it all, and it hurts.

It hurts even now, all these years later. They say heartbreak heals with time, but not this heart of mine.

I remember his backbreaking hugs, and how much he loved licorice and Werther's candy. I remember watching his feet kick back in his La-Z-Boy chair for his afternoon naps. They twitched every so often.

God, I even remember the sound of his voice. It's indescribable but it lives within my memories of him, so I can hear him when I want, and when I need to.

I bet my deceased pets even remember him. He always had a treat for them, whenever he came across the yard to see what we were up to.

I remember him sitting by the pool – one of his favorite things to do. He was there when my brother and I learned to swim. He enjoyed hearing us laughing and seeing us having fun in his backyard where we were always welcome when he was alive.

I remember the tire swing he hung from one of the thickest branches of the pines on his property. It was always sticky with sap, but it was well loved, and well used. I remember being terrified of going in his barn, afraid a monster dwelt within the shadows. But I always enjoyed poking around his greenhouse.

I remember rows of corn, bulbous pumpkins, towering sunflowers, and the rest of his lovingly tended garden every summer. He and my mother shared this particular hobby, and bonded through green thumbs, weeding, and harvesting their crops together.

I remember him giving money for good report cards, dollars plucked from his secret poker money stash in the laundry room. I remember receiving a savings bond every birthday until the day he died. He always wanted to make sure we had something after he was long gone.

I remember his ginormous motor home and going on long camping trips with him at the wheel. My brother and I always slept in the compartment above his head, trusting him entirely with our lives as we dozed, and he drove. So many nights spent in that camper. I can even still recall how it smelled.

It's funny how you remember things. It could be a passing expression of a stranger that triggers a memory, or a homely scent you swear you'd never smell again. It could be a joke, a mannerism, or the mention of a name. It could be a place that is no longer home, or a place that will always be home.

When I'm home, I remember. For next door, my grandfather lived. He loved when I played my flute for him, and when I left him little notes on his writing desk. He loved when we sledded on the hills in his backyard and popped in for an unexpected visit. He loved tinkering around the garage, going hunting with my father, and fishing out on his boat. He loved many things.

And, he loved me.

I remember he used to call me “me-too,” because everything he, my father, and brother did, I wanted to be included.

I remember hating his damp, dark basement because it wasn't well lit. I remember the pool table rotting under dust and disuse, and how most of the balls were somehow missing.

I remember family cookouts in his driveway, the motor home's awning towering over the guests and picnic tables. I remember the joy in his face as he sliced through thick watermelons as we filled our bellies with the juicy innards, spitting out seeds at our cousins in a full out watermelon war.

And... I remember the day my world dimmed just a little bit, a fragment of light missing in my mind's eye, when my grandfather passed away.

It was a cloudy July day. I remember pretending with my brother and cousins that there was nothing wrong. We were circling around the driveway on our bikes, each of us unaware of the difficulties we were inevitably going to face now that he was gone.

I remember walking into the funeral home, not believing he was truly dead. I remember holding my cousin's hands, and peeking out over the heads at the opened coffin. The air was stale. It was thick with heartbreak and tension.

I remember slowly creeping closer.

And closer.

When I finally reached his coffin, I was okay, for a moment. Then, my eyes caught it. The card. In his pocket. My get well card I had made for him when he was in the hospital, recovering from surgery.

The dams broke loose.

I had never cried so much in my entire life. The ice cream afterward did nothing to assuage the absolute grief in my 1o-year-old soul.

And it still hurts.

It still hurts when I pass his house, no longer his. A new family lives there now, and I hope they take good care of it.

Like its former owner took good care of all of us. Of me.

I have a few things of his. A couple jackets, a couple hats.

They hang in my hallway closet.

Every so often, when I need the comfort, I smell each piece.

It's still there, almost 21 years later. The pine trees, the crisp fresh air, the wood smoke.

Embedded in the seams. Just like in my memory.

I remember, Papa. I remember.