Larston St.
My Papa died in early February of this year. He was 91 years old. This, as you all know, was not my first encounter with loss but it was my first encounter with figuring out how to explain death to my then 3-year-old.
I had written the below after visiting Mimi and Papa’s house on January 29, 2022. Papa was 90 at the time and I wanted to document that day, it was particularly beautiful to me for reasons I cannot really explain…
Oooorrr maybe it was this Lenny and Benny photo shoot that really put that day over the edge. Hmm, hard to say ♥
I later read this at his funeral on February 9, 2023. God must’ve encouraged me to capture that day for He knew those invaluable moments were fleeting. He knew I’d yearn to relive them again. And again.
1.29.22
Two months ago, Papa, my Dad’s Father, turned 90. It’s not lost on me the gift I have been given to have grandparents still alive and well. That gift becomes priceless when I watch my grandparents love upon my own children, their “greats” as Mimi calls them.
To leave our house and arrive somewhere on time requires a simultaneous act of God and Congress… and, well, these two powers aren’t known for swiftness. It was decided we would leave for Mimi and Papa’s house after Bennett awoke from his morning nap, and I fed him. He woke around noon and I eagerly texted Mimi to let her know we will arrive around 1 pm. I feed Bennett... and we arrive around 2 pm. Ugh.
Papa had a stroke ten years ago. I will always remember this timeline because Brad and I were engaged when the stroke struck. and as of this visit we had just celebrated our nine-year wedding anniversary. The stroke was devastating to Papa, of course, but also our whole family. Papa was a gem among fossils. The stroke turned him into a geode - hidden in a shell less sparkling than his former one, but just as dazzling on the inside as ever before.
He shuffles to his reclining chair, house shoes never leaving contact with the floor, brushing his walker up against the cardboard box filled with a mostly empty cookie tin, and carefully sits down. Cookies have become the largest source of energy in his diet, orange soda a close second. I remember my Granny eating mostly bite size Butterfingers and mini-Hershey candies in her final years. And while everyone who loved Granny spent time and energy working to diversify and health-ify her diet… it was a pipe dream. It’s very much the same with Papa. I think once you’ve surpassed 80, you can eat whatever you want. Eight plus decades has earned you ice cream for dinner, and breakfast.
My Dad, “Pop”, is holding Bennett. Elliott jogs around the house energized by the walls of windows pouring light into Mimi and Papa’s living room. Calvin rolls around on a fuzzy mauve blanket offering up a variety of two-year-old antics to a willing audience, mostly his “Lolly”. Mimi and Brad sit on the coach, me in a chair just on the other side of Papa’s makeshift cookie pantry. They are watching the kids; I am watching Papa.
The stroke rendered him speechless. A man who had a singing voice like Frank Sinatra, loved to socialize, and lived to make people laugh can’t do any of these things anymore. At least not in typical ways. He’s worked his way back up to some words. He can’t say “Mimi” but he can say “shit” clear as day. He can also {clearly} articulate many other… umm, colorful?… words, along with some of our names . But “I love you” is my personal favorite. The recipient of such affection can always understand that phrase when Papa expresses it.
He can’t converse with you, and his hearing hasn’t been good since 1985, but he is more present than anyone I’ve ever known. When you are with him, he gives you his all. He observes his “greats” in a way that I, their mother, often don’t. I’m mesmerized watching him, watch them. He laughs as Benny makes adorable attempts to work his chubby baby hands with the hopes of cubed sweet potato making it into his mouth (ehhh, he gets like ever other cube). He immediately notices the rash on Calvin’s face and looks at me with an expression that says “What did you do to my great? Explain yourself.” He watches Ellie with wonder and love, as she has blossomed far beyond her first fragile years. Then he smirks his face in a sneaky sort of way and reaches out for a fist bump - she returns it, and he delights with joy over the interaction, letting out a boisterous one-syllable laugh.
He commands my dad remove the toothpick from his mouth while holding Bennett. He does this with a grunt, hand gesture, and eyebrow furrow. My Dad receives the message and immediately tosses his saliva drenched toothpick onto the coffee table only to be scolded by Mimi for his choice in used toothpick placement. Papa walks his fingers to Ellie as if to tickle her chin, while she inhales a cream cheese kolache, with the hopes of getting her to smile. He stops to dance a basic box step alongside his walker making eye contact with whomever is around, awaiting someone’s engagement as a potential dance partner. He kisses you on the cheek, or directly on the lips, to say hello and goodbye; does this with everyone he loves. (must be the Sicilian in him) He will sit wherever comfortable observing the empire that he built over 90 years.
Voiceless and with barely any hearing left, he takes in more than any of us. Tiny moments and interactions we are all likely missing. He still makes us all laugh, he still connects with each of us in ways only Papa can, he still makes it very known we are loved by him. He is still a tremendous Great Grandfather to my bambinos.
It’s wild what can be gained after much is lost.
Mimi is holding Bennett, Ellie is devouring her kolache and Calvin is demanding to drink from my water bottle. In the same second, Ellie sneezes producing a combination of cream cheese and snot in one long string dangling from her nose while Calvin knocks over the bottle, water pours onto the table and then floor. Mimi bursts into laughter as Brad and I run for the nearest paper products. I’m on the floor scrubbing like Cinderella and Mimi continues chuckling at the timing. “Oh Aubrey, that is so unnecessary, it’s water - it’ll dry. Get up.” I don’t, of course, not wanting her or Papa to slip on the water. She then reminds me of how much these floors have seen as she raised her own littles in an even tighter age range than mine.
There is something so welcoming about Mimi and Papa’s home on Larston St. It’s filled with stories. Stories of past spilled water and snot-rockets, with or without cream cheese.
I wonder if Mimi and Papa ever thought their ‘greats’ would be a part of the home’s history? Of their history? I know I didn’t think I could be this lucky.
Grateful and Grief-Filled,
Aubrey
PS - Below is how I imagine Papa and Maria in heaven, together. But likely with wine.
