Papa

"Papa" is an autobiographical narrative piece about my last encounter with my grandfather, whom I miss dearly. Published in Syracuse University's student-run literary magazine, Intertext, in Spring 2014.

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The two-and-a-half hour car ride to San Diego that warm July afternoon was seemingly endless—like how time always seems to freeze when you’re slouched in the seat of your least favorite class, hyperactively anticipating that glorious moment when the time reads: dismissal o’clock.  The year was 2003, gas prices had not yet surpassed $2/gallon, and I still didn’t truly comprehend the meaning of the C-word.  I pressed my pudgy, eight-year-old nose against the backseat window of our old Ford Explorer and tried to count the yellow traffic lines that dotted the 405-South.  Which was fruitless, because 65 miles per hour plus heavy eyelids equaled a blur of mustard trailing on the black asphalt of the highway. Soon, the innate, adolescent inability to focus on anything for more than 5 minutes prompted a graduation from line-counting to cloud-watching.  My carsick gaze trailed up to the light blue blanket speckled with creampuffs and I spotted two fish, a dog, a dragon, and a man with a top hat until we finally arrived at the Big Building. 

The Big Building was boxy and grey, greyer than the pale concrete across which I lethargically dragged my tattered blue Sketchers.  I followed my parents and my sister, and as we neared the Building, the sun decided to play hide-and-seek with the clouds, casting a shadow of an even darker hue of grey over the place. The shiny glass doors slid open silently, eerily, followed by a gust of chill air that greeted us as we entered. I kept my eyes focused on the heels of my mother and the linoleum was littered with squeaks as my Sketchers hurried to keep up.  When the heels halted, my eyes finally raised and I squinted through the cool air and looked around the room.

White, white, white.  White—the walls, white—the chair, and white—the bed in which you were sleeping. White—the sheets that almost blended into your skin, white.  The only source of color was from the sun, which had evidently gotten tired of hiding.  Through the white, white blinds of that cold room, the light leaked in slender drops of molten sunshine, adorning your white face with streaks of gold.  Your lips parted ever so slightly, your brow furrowed deeply, and to this day, I have not forgotten the way you peacefully sighed,

“I’m ready, now, Lord. Please take me, I am ready…”

 before a woman in white gently woke you.  You could hardly recognize me, but you mustered a weak hello as I tentatively approached the white bed.  I clasped my small hand in yours and the wrinkles told me all your stories, the stories I wish I could have heard.  Somehow, I smiled through the warm liquid carving salty trenches down my cheeks.  I smiled and you took it and claimed it as your own.  But I wanted you to have it. I didn’t need it anymore. I still need you.

Eight hours later, I saw my father cry for the first time in my life.  Eight hours later, I finally learned that the C-word was close friends with Death.  Eight hours later, you finally allowed Cancer and Death to reunite. I’m still not sure if I believe in God, but I hope that he listened to your sleep-heavy sigh that day, and took you by your wrinkled hand, because you were ready, even if I wasn’t. And I hope that wherever you are now, it’s anything but white.  

The “Window” to My Soul

A short, autobiographical essay about how I lost my two front teeth. 

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            WindowFace.  This was the title that my classmates so generously bestowed upon me in kindergarten. 

It was not because I had my chubby, 6-year-old face perpetually pressed to a pane.  It was not because the actual shape of my head possessed qualities of a quadrilateral.  The rationale behind this initially nebulous namesake was…my teeth—or lack, thereof.

            The parting of the upper right and left central incisors—or, more commonly, the “two front teeth”—from the mouth of an adolescent is inevitable.  It is in fact, even more common for children to begin “losing” their teeth at age six.  Once a baby tooth departs from the mouth, the normal time span for this tooth to grow back can range from about a month to a year and a half, tops.

            My two front teeth took three years to return. 

            This abnormal time span of re-growth was attributed to the abnormal method in which my cherished chompers departed.  Mine were violently, viciously yanked from my upper jaw by an unrelenting, unscrupulous villain I like to call: my older sister. 

We were playing with those pliable foam noodles that can often be found leisurely drifting along the surface of a pool on a hot summer day—except we did not have a pool, it was not a hot summer day, and we were in our living room.  My sister decided that I was clearly undeserving of the particularly long noodle I had in my hands, so she proceeded to try stealing it from my grasp.  An intense game of tug-of-war ensued.  I was clearly losing; in a last-ditch effort to win, I decided to put the noodle in my mouth.  (Infallible Logic from My Six-Year-Old Mind: I thought that if my dog could win that way, why couldn’t I?)  It turns out, there were lots of reasons why I could not prevail this way—with the number one reason being my older sister not quite knowing her own strength.

 One forceful wrench, five frantic screams for my mother, three hours’ worth of tears, and one seemingly endless dental appointment later…my two front teeth had officially vacated the premises of my mouth.

For the next three years, every time I spoke, smiled, laughed, or whistled (well, attempted to whistle), I was constantly reminded of the gaping black “window” located dead center of my face. Kids can be cruel; my re-christening as WindowFace was proof of this. But the thing is, I truly didn’t mind.  I didn’t mind this mockery of my physical appearance that might have reduced other kids to tears.  In fact, I embraced it.  Every chance I got, I would proudly and ecstatically relay the terrifying tale of my tooth deficiency.  Storytelling had always been one of my favorite pastimes.  And my glorious gap just gave me one more conversation starter.  

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.  For me, it’s my mouth.