I remember Papa. He was warm and wonderful and kind and strong and he loved me.
I remember Papa… and even though I'm an adult now, I miss him.
He used to tell me stories of Good Guys and Bad Guys, Heroes and Villains. Boy, could he tell a story. It was almost as if he lived the fairy tale. Looking back on it now, I'm not so sure he didn't.
There were stories of the beautiful witch, the gentle king, the princess, the warrior woman, the black knight… all the elements of fairy tales but it was something about the way he told the stories… as if he'd watched all the battles, the pain of loss, the joy of victory. It all seemed so real.
He always found time for me. He'd try to help me with homework, but he seemed to be working with a handicap. But come science fair projects or Scouting projects, he was a whiz. With his help, I (we) even won a few pinewood derbies. I still have the trophies to this day. He looked so proud of me.
Momma was beautiful and warm and loving and she and Papa loved each other very much. Papa and I seemed to have this special something. All I know is that Momma handed out all the 'corporal' punishment when I needed it growing up. It wasn't often, all Papa had to do was look at me to express his disappointment and I'd feel worse than if I'd received a dozen spankings.
Schoolwork (some of it anyway) seemed quite easy. Math, Chemistry, Physics, Biology… all those came easily. It was the languages and English and Literature and History that gave me fits. Regardless of what it was, Papa would do his best to help me.
I'm a grandfather now and know that I was nowhere the parent my Papa was. I'm sorry Papa, I tried. Maybe I tried too hard. I just wish I could have been the father to my children that you were to me.
Me? Me, I'm no one important, just another speed bump in the highway of life, but Papa, he was important. When he died there were so many people that came to his funeral. So many people. It liked to kill Mamma when Papa died. In a way, it did. She didn't last long after Papa died. It seemed the life just left her. I know something of what she felt, for I wanted to curl up and die when he left. Where I found the strength to go on, I'll never know.
I visit their graves every Sunday, to talk about what happened during the week and keep them current on things. Sometimes it is just so hard to talk, I just stare at their joint tombstone: Alexander L. Harris - Dawn M. Harris.
Me, I'm Jesse Rupert Harris, their only child, and I miss them so much.