I Never Really Knew Him
But, Here’s What I Remember
Fedoras.
Pinstripe suits. Dark brown, gray, or blue. Popped collars. A loud voice. Trembling hands. A stutter. War wounds. The fear inside a small home from an even smaller man. Quick visits.
Lapped rides in your pick-up truck, my hands on a steering wheel, guided by your precise directions. My very first basketball. The look on the boys’ faces at the neighborhood court when you demanded they let me play. A stinky pipe, marbled, and in fashion. Thick, potent smoke.
A green den. My introduction to The Color Purple on VHS. Twinkies. “Red” Kool-aid. Collard greens. TV trays, dinners, and antennas. Dim lights. Brown carpet. A broken light switch. My grandmother’s silence when you’d scream, “Shut up, woman!”
German Shepherds — Champ, my favorite. A neatly, manicured lawn. Fenced-in backyard. The woods behind it. Tales of death. Warnings of “Stay inside that fence, boy!” Jump-roping alone. Hula-hooping alone. Fetch with Champ.
You used to call me “boy” and never my name. Dark shades. Bifocals. The tears that streamed down your face at your oldest daughter’s funeral. The tears that streamed down your face at the sight of your second grandson. The tears that streamed down your face as you died. I was never a boy.
Metastatic prostate cancer.
Bones. Lymph nodes. Liver. A stinky pipe, marbled, and in fashion. Thick, potent smoke. Because, why not? Breaking the rules. Frequent visits. My cousins. Women who catered to you. Strength. Frailty. Demands. Someone else spoke for you. You no longer cared to.
Dying, to some people, is an allure.
A big funeral in a church you seldom visited. Fake smiles. An even faker eulogy. Men who showed up simply because “They wanted to make sure you were dead.” Eavesdropping. Collard greens. Cornbread. Fried chicken. Macaroni-n-cheese. My great-grandmother—her hair down, finally. My grandmother’s silence . . .
Going Up To Meet Him (In The Air). Hand-clapping. Foot-tapping. Burgundy pew covers. Crying. Wailing. Shouting. Sobbing. My little feet, barely touching the floor, swaying. The Holy Ghost.
Pain.
We still miss you. Mom cries. My uncle’s children never met you. Grandma lives without you. She’s no longer silent. I never really knew you . . .
But, I remember.
©2019 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved.
