Growing Tired, Growing Anxious

... and this ain't the half of it......

Driving through the city last night I realized the dull dust of Dallas is so much sadder than the brown and white sands of the desert, NM. Smoke rises from office thermostats and the roads sway back and forth and grab car-tires. At 5 a.m. a wreck headed westbound was being picked up before the heavy flow of rush-hour traffic. The wind was heavy on and the trailer rocked between the narrow lanes, guided by white lines, but I made it through the sad purgatory of highway between city and suburbs, made it home and went to sleep.

I drove, December 3, to the airport in El Paso and flew to NYC. I arrived, walked across the city to Amanda’s, stayed the week exploring, went back to the airport in Long Island, flew back to El Paso, drove to Cruces w/ Chad and stayed the night. Bed by 2, awake by 7:45, we drove to Alamogordo, packed the car, drove to Denton, arrived. We spent the week in Denton and, on the last day, I drove to Waxahachie to see Papa. He was dieing. I left there, swapped car for truck with Dad, drove back to Denton, gathered Chad, Ryan, Chris, and all our things, and hit the road that night for Alamogordo. We arrived at 7:30 in the morning, slept, woke, coffee, went back and packed, packed the next day, and packed, loaded, and left the last day, last night. Ryan, Chris, and I got back on the road at 4:30 in the early evening and drove all night back to Denton, arrived at 5:00 a.m. I dropped Chris off in Denton, Ryan in Corinth, and drove the last hour and a half to Gun Barrel City, Dad’s place. I napped, then got ready at Dad’s, helped him unload the trailer of Grandma’s things, then drove to Waxahachie for Papa’s viewing. After, we went to Granny’s, then home and bed. The next morning we woke, got ready, and left for the funeral by 7:15, went to the burial, then memorial, lunch, Granny’s, and back to Mom’s.

Papa has died, but Papa has not passed. We can mourn that his life now continues without us, but he’s never gone.
Papa has always been more than his breaths. He is the grandfather who taught me how to use a bow-saw, slow pulling back, quick and heavy pushing through the wood. Have you ever wondered how a horse eats versus how a cow eats? Well, neither have I, but Papa told me one day at the kitchen table while visiting the lake-house. He said a horse bites grass with its top teeth, a cow pulls up with his bottom. In this short lesson I learned where Papa came from. A boy who swam in the swimming-hole when he wasn’t working the farm. He told me his family killed their own meat. He taught me how to tie a square-knot. He showed me how to play Gin Rummy. He taught us all what it means to be loved.
Old Brownie, the truck, 1980 Chevy Silverado. It played eight track tapes and towed the camper if it wasn’t towing the boat. I fished from the boat. We stored our catch in the water-well. Did you catch the first, the biggest, or the most? Who saw the lake first when we went over the last hill, sunup? I learned how to ski behind the boat. Remember the old, dirty-orange life-vests?
Papa was with us with his bright-white hair, his true eyes behind broad-rimmed glasses, his southern-boy ears pointing out, attentively awaiting our next concern, and he’s with us still in his lessons, his love, and the memories we share. What do you remember?

My family’s eyes look so tired, sad, yet warm and inviting.


Soon.