I don’t remember how he picked up his feet when he walked or whether his burgundy woolen slippers skimmed the ground or if they left it with room to spare.
I don’t remember the kind of cup he poured his box of red wine Franzia into. I’d surely remember if it was a proper stemmed glass filled to the brim. I can assure you it wasn’t that. It was likely a paper or plastic cup, something he’d refill until it could barely hold its shape.
I don’t remember much about what we talked about. I do, however, remember the outdoor living space he created in the third bay of the garage. And how he’d sit in his black leather chair, duct tape covering the aged rips, and how I’d sit kitty-corner to him. I remember how I’d walk the long gravel road after getting off the bus, and head straight for that chair. And how I knew he’d already be there waiting for me.
I don’t remember if he ever told me he loved me. But I do remember how he made me feel. I remember the day my grandmother found him in the bedroom, unresponsive on the floor.
I remember walking the short distance through our lawn, over my grandparent’s gravel drive, and into the side door into the garage the night he was in the hospital. I remember plugging the extension cord in, the same one my grandfather had been doing for weeks before. Although he died later that night, his 1950’s Ford pickup truck shone bright – wheels twinkly spinning, and white silhouette outlined – for all to see on Christmas Eve night.
I don’t remember much. But.