Becca’s Cyber Home

You asked what I wrote that got published in the annual Story Circle Network anthology. Well, today the anthology came in the mail, so here you go.

The after-image of the bright sun burns my vision. I look down at the ground as I run screaming from the tall man behind me. The grass is a blur as I rush past the grove of trees and over the hill. But my screams are not punctuated with panic–they are finished with shrieking giggles. The lanky man behind me is Pawpaw, chasing me through the field, past pigs and cows, until it seems like just the two of us. He pretends for a while that he can’t catch me, but in a surprising burst of speed, he finally scoops me into those long, muscled arms, dumps me upside-down, and yells, “I caught a stinker!” I look up again, through my tangled and wind-blown hair at the laughing eyes of the man holding me captive. I swear, that mischievous glint sparkles as bright as the sun.

Sometimes a memory becomes so old, or so often replayed, that it assumes an air of feeling or instinct. We wonder if it ever really happened because we lose the clarity of the surrounding events in the shadow of that feeling. Although I spent almost every free moment of the first seven years of my life with Pawpaw, I have more feeling-memories than distinct memories. When I was eight, we moved from Texas to New Mexico, and I saw Pawpaw only twice in sixteen years. When I moved back to Texas as an adult and started visiting Pawpaw again, I was shocked to see an old man where there was once a vibrant, larger-than-life man.

Last summer, Pawpaw was diagnosed with lung cancer. In a twist of irony, the doctors told us that non-smoker’s lung cancer is usually much more aggressive than smoker’s lung cancer. The man was 83 and still farming, so we figured he’d win that battle. But the day after his 84th birthday, November 25th, he was admitted to the hospital for the last time. December 22nd, he died. December 22nd, I finally felt winter.

For all the warmth and humidity of the region, southeastern Texas has a distinct winter season. The green fields and trees turn brittle and brown. The leafy oaks that look like bright heads of broccoli in summer remind me of a brain scan photo with empty, twisting, gnarled branches in winter.

The last time I visited Pawpaw at his farm, I knew winter was coming. The dry grass crunched underfoot as I wandered the fields where I once frolicked with the calves. The world took on a distinctly sepia, almost dream-like tone, with brown land, washed out sky, and the over-bright sun casting sharp shadows along my path. With half-seeing eyes, I walked past the dilapidated milking and feed barn, through the maze of fence posts that no longer sported wire, and past the tool shed with rotting side boards. It didn’t look so different until I reached the area where I spent most of my time with Pawpaw. There were once dozens of pens that stretched along the ridge, like teeth on a comb. Suddenly my eyes finally saw. In front of me was a metal pig shelter surrounded by a mish-mash of rotted fence posts and rusted fence wire. Even the corrugated metal had rusted holes, the same sepia tone as the rest of the world.

I remember thinking, “Wow, that shelter is old. Needs to be fixed.” In the heels of that admission came a realization that was like a photo, a snapshot forever ingrained in my memory. A grainy image of a broken down way of life that has been ravaged by time and circumstance. The caption of that mental photo reads “The farmer grows old.” I was suddenly afraid that the shelter was a reflection of Pawpaw. I turned toward the house, back toward Pawpaw, to say another goodbye before winter.

I wrote this fully knowing that we never feel like we say an adequate good-bye to our loved ones. I was lucky enough to see Pawpaw before he passed on, so I at least was able to tell him in person, one last time, that I love him. But I know he’s not gone because he lives on in every single person who was blessed by his life.

So today no good-bye. Until next time, Pawpaw. I love you.