My Pappy

Two weeks ago, I lost my grandfather. In a very real sense, I lost the only father I have ever known. He was 80 years old. He lived a good, long life. Of course, we always want more time, one more chance to say "I love you," one more long embrace, a minute to glimpse one more smile. However, if we are honest with ourselves, it would never be quite enough. We would plead for just a bit more.

When I remember him, I am eight years old again. I am walking out of my elementary school. There he is...standing with his legs shoulder-width apart and his hands behind his back. I walk towards him, he takes my bookbag, and we walk together to the bus stop. I run ahead and collect mahogany seeds and store them in my art box. He urges me to continue walking. We are sitting side-by-side on the bus. I link my arm with his and rest my head on his upper arm. He gently wakes me up when we reach home. I groggily get up and we start to walk two blocks home. My eyelids are still heavy, so I tell him that I am going to close my eyes and he has to lead me. I hold his hand and repeatedly ask him if there is anything in front of me. I peek a few times until we get home and the game is over. We shared a similar experience nearly every afternoon after school for several years.


I had nearly twenty-four wonderful years with my "pappy" as I called him, nearly two and a half decades full of memories by which to remember him. I didn't get to say goodbye, but neither did he. We knew we loved each other. That's enough for me because a simple "goodbye" would not have done our relationship justice. I would have pled for just a little bit more.