I Saw Paw Paw Today

 I Saw My Paw Paw Today

The World Owed Him More

    I have a lot of good times with Paw Paw. He was a young grandfather, tough, funny, hip, and always loving. Always. He used to be a steelworker, took pride in his union, and did everything he could to make sure Grannie, my mom and her sister want for nothing. 

    It was a real treat being able to take a trip down to visit him and Grannie. They lived up until recently in a low-roofed house off Silver Cloud, decorated in golds and metallics--blatant signs of "luxury" back in the 60s and 70s. They've always had the same kitchen, same appliances, and the same sunken brown couches in the living room where used to sit and watch the old TV, to eat Shipley's donuts, to seat the family and guests, and, for the kids, to lay our heads at night. When we were bored with our iPods or our DSs, or reruns of Meet the Browns, my brothers, my cousin, and I would challenge my grandfather to basketball under those big ol' pecan trees in the backyard. Or we'd play with his BB gun, pointing that old rifle to a plastic bottle he set on a traffic cone in the corner of the yard. Or we'd play tag. Or we'd crack open those pecans from those big ol’ pecan trees and feast against the humidity of the bayou close by.

    My Paw Paw was fun. We'd drink Promise Land chocolate milk together, and I made sure that every time I headed in his direction that I would bring him some chocolate covered almonds from Buc-ee's for us to share. He was funny, too (I know I said this already, but you gotta understand). He would make jokes about my feet: “There's only two people I know who can walk on water: you and Jesus." and would get a kick out of telling my brothers and I that the fried catfish Grannie would have ready for us when we arrived for our visits was actually fried Nemo. When we played dominoes, he'd let me keep score, and I would watch him slam those tiles onto the table, feigning humility when he’d ask me to give him a dime. He would let me sit on his lap, and we'd argue and poke fun at each other's team. In that house, he would constantly remind me that the Cowboys were always the inferior Texas team as he sat under his large Texan blanket with his Texan t-shirt, Texan pants, hat, and any other nalia he could find.

    I know my Paw Paw then. The one who would make me sign and date every picture I drew for him. The one that would box with my older brother. The one who would go to every football game for my cousin. I know his laugh, I know his smell, and I know that rag that he would put over his shoulder when he would make his most famous ribs. 

    I was confused when I saw that weak, thin, frail, man on the other side of the screen his morning. His mouth halfway open because he had no strength to hold it closed. Worn out from just...eating. In hospice, laying still, tired, worn, barely responsive (and even less coherent) on that bed next to his diabetic brother who lost his leg long ago and whose family had forgotten him there. He held a little conversation with me, laughing faintly when I got on the phone and mustering a smile when I blew him kisses. "It's good seeing you, Yana." The call couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

    How could this have happened to him? Was working hours upon hours on skyscrapers not enough to give? Was the disrespect, the ignorance to his manhood, the daily inhumanity, was his effort not enough? Did he have to give his body to the point of developing Parkinson's? A man barely into his 70s, who trembles when he moves, who suffers seizures, whose bones are so brittle, how could his dignity--the strength that I remember him having--be taken from his so cruelly? Sacrificing everything that he had to give to others to the point that there is no more of himself on display to everyone he loved so fiercely?

    I saw my Paw Paw today, and he deserved more. I saw my Paw Paw today, and as my tears plead as I write, the world owed him more.