The fourteenth of January

There was a mermaid dinner bell I'd ring when it was time to signal everyone to the table. We'd sit at the octagon shaped table with the rolling chairs that lost their wheels often. My room was a small add on. I slept in a handcrafted loft bed. A Princess Diana poster was taped to my closet wall. In the backyard, there was an orange tree that I loved to climb unless it was swarming with bees. Buddy the dog and Queen Elizabeth the crawfish were buried in the backyard. There was a long drive way along the side of the house. It's where my older brother locked me and my younger brother in the trunk of our parents' car. At the end of the driveway sat a detached garage. This garage was my favorite place of the whole home. It smelled of sawdust, it smelled of my Papa. It's where he lovingly made my loft bed. It's where he got distracted and forgot that he had left my dad inside holding up a piece of dry wall. I'd sit on a sawhorse and talk to him while he measured, cut, sanded, and listened to me, only every now and then flashing me a sparkly-eyed smile, his mouth barely moving.

I'd crawl into his lap after work and feel the whiskers on his face rub against mine as he quietly answered all the Jeopardy questions correctly. We lived with my grandparents for some time. It helped my parents save money and it helped my grandparents maintain and fix up their home. Even when we didn't live with them, we didn't live far. Kids on their street were my close friends. Sleepovers and day trips with my cousin and Nana and Papa were frequent. One January afternoon, I went over to a friend's house to play. Their phone rang and after a few minutes my friend's mom told me that I'd be staying longer. I went back to playing Break the Ice happily, never knowing that my family was dealing with the worst news of our lives. My Papa had suffered a heart attack at work and the adults rushed to the hospital. The prognosis wasn't good.

On January 14, 1997, my family lost its patriarch, its sparkly-eyed carpenter. My nana was his beloved, my mom his daddy's girl. My dad lost the only real father he'd ever known. My brothers, my cousin, and I lost our Papa. I was angry for a long time. My young little heart didn't have the capacity to process a death so close to me. My parents sent me to counseling. They had me write and draw and talk. It helped, but we would all be forever changed. I wish he could have seen me swim one more time. I wish he was there to see me graduate and get married. I wish I could hear him say he's proud of me for getting into nursing school. I know that he and John would get along well. He was such a young grandpa, not much older than my dad is now.

I was mad at God for awhile. I blamed Him for taking my papa so soon. But in His gracious way, he redeemed January 14th for our family. Three years after his death, a sparkly-eyed ray of sunshine came into our life: my sister, Kynsley. Her witty, silly, compassionate disposition helps to ease the ache of losing our Papa. Happy 13th Birthday, sweet girl. In those gray-blue eyes that sparkle right before a smile slyly breaks across your face, I see Papa in you.