He Just Sits There

Edit: I have no idea what's going on with the font formatting. Sorry.

*My Papa died last night. All day long, I was really struggling that I wasn't in Mesa to say goodbye, but today, I've felt only peace. I wrote this personal essay for a writing class in April after Papa made the long trip with my family just to attend my Junior Recital. I hadn't realized how old he'd become.*

He just sits there.

His hair is whiter than I remember, perfectly combed and glinting in the fresh morning sunshine, stray wisps drifting every now and again with the soft kisses of the cool, quiet air. His plaid, button-up shirt is neatly ironed, the collar secured with a silver and ox-blood coral bolo tie beaded with turquoise, the tip of an insulin syringe peaking from the pocket. His round belly bulges against the enormous silver and gold belt buckle that holds up the dark blue Levis. And of course, the ostrich leather boots, only slightly scuffed after years of wear. His rabbit and beaver pelt Stetson sits on the table behind him.

His breathing is slow. He’s soaking in the morning sunshine, enjoying the quiet before the kids are up.

And he just sits there.

I swing my legs back and forth impatiently, seeing how long I can get away with kicking my shoes off. Church is unbearably long for a four-year-old.  As I become increasingly restless, Papa reaches over and pulls me onto his lap, and with a pen and the program, he keeps me occupied for the rest of the meeting with doodles of cowboys and horses and guns. His grey jacket itches my arms, and I burrow into the softer lining, smelling the same familiar smell. If I’m lucky, he’ll reach into his pocket and pull out the orange tic-tacs.

Eventually, my brothers make it up the stairs. It’s time for yard-work. Clearing the tumbleweeds and burning them, pulling the burrs from the flower beds. The whole family with rakes and shovels and hoes.

And still, he just sits there.

I tentatively walk over and sit next to him. He bends over, pulling up a handful of weeds, telling me that the ones with pink flowers are called filigree and that the old sheep ranchers used to lead their flocks to the pastures overrun with it to get them fattened up for winter.

My dad calls me over to help, and I leave Papa sitting there.

Mom wakes me gently. Usually I’m awake first, watching The Little Mermaid before Dad even eats breakfast. It must be early. I can hear Papa’s voice in the living room. I run out to him in my nightshirt, looking up at my tall, skinny, brown-skinned, black-haired Papa. With a gentle swat, he sends me off to find some shoes. I get to go help feed the new baby calves! Of course, the only shoes I want to wear are my new, shiny, black Sunday shoes from Grandma. Acknowledging the pretty shoes, Papa lifts me into the cab of his truck. Before he can even start the engine, I’d climb through the small back window into the covered bed. I think the bumps over the wheels made the perfect bench for a kid. Plus, it’s extra bumpy along the dirt roads back here.

The family comes back inside when the work is done, ready for showers and clean clothes. I watch as they all just pass by Papa. What about him? He’s still just sitting there! They can’t forget about him! Then I watch as my dad grips him by the arms and pulls him to standing. He drags the chair back to the patio before leading Papa inside. As soon as they’re in the living room, Dad helps Papa sit back down in a tall chair with plenty of support.

So he can just keep sitting there.

Everything loses focus as Papa spins me faster and faster on his old tire swing. I throw my head back, looking up at the gooey elk carcass hanging over the swing-set frame to dry in the Arizona heat. In a matter of weeks, it will join the deer and bobcats and beavers and bears and mountain lions in the playroom in Papa’s basement. What other five-year old can say they’ve pet a bear?

I sit at the counter doing my nails and listening to music. My siblings are all downstairs watching television, and my parents are getting ready for the day. I look over at the chair and see Papa has fallen asleep. His glasses are slipping down his nose, his breathing is slow and heavy. I stare at him while I blow on my nails and glance down to see if the paint is drying.

Maybe he’ll sit there for the rest of the day…

Grandma died. Hepatitis-C, which had laid dormant for almost thirty years after a blood transfusion at my dad’s birth, came back to claim her liver. I still sit next to Papa at church, but he doesn’t pull me onto his lap. He takes my hand in his, and we just sit. He’s the fidgety one now. I watch as he begins scratching the polish off of my freshly red nails. I look up at him but am too scared to say anything or pull away. His mind is somewhere else. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

Mom comes back with groceries for brunch. She fries hash-browns as I cut fruit into a big bowl. Papa is awake again but hasn’t moved, occasionally calling out how wonderful everything smells.

“Mom? Usually Papa’s up helping…. Usually he’s in the middle of things.”

She smiles at me, knowing what I mean.

“Yep,” she says, glancing over at him, “But these days, he just kinda sits there.”

He just kinda sits there…

Papa takes me to some distant relatives’ house for a Christmas party. They’re Grandma’s cousins, and though I’m fifteen, I’ve never met them. I participate in the musical program, and we mingle a bit before leaving. The sun is setting, but there is still plenty of light. As we climb into the car, I note the minimal space between us and the surrounding cars. Maybe it would be better if I drive? Papa starts the car and inches forward. I point out how close we are, but he brushes it off, insisting he can see just fine. We pull forward, scraping both cars quite a bit. I flinch. Driving the couple miles home, we narrowly avoid two more collisions. Papa’s eyesight is worse than he thinks, and after he drops me off, I complain to Dad that he shouldn’t be allowed to drive anymore, at least at night.

Over the years, Papa spends more and more time at our house. He and Norma (an old family friend who lost her husband right before Grandma died) keep each other company, watching John Wayne movies and frequenting the local diners, still living in the old ranching days. Dad thinks about tearing down the shed in our backyard and building Papa his own little suite. That way, Dad can help him shower and keep an eye on his diabetes and make sure he eats full meals. From what I hear, Papa used to be grumpy and mean, but now, he’s just an old man who loves his family and wants to spend time with them. Every time I see him, he asks if I remember who he is and if I remember that he loves me before sneaking me a twenty-dollar-bill or two. Every time I see him, he’s older than I remember. He shuffles more than walks. He’s hunched and round instead of tall and straight. I always thought his hair was black, but now it’s perfectly white. I somehow missed all of the transition.

Tucker and I stop by his house Thanksgiving afternoon, just to see him while we’re in town from school. I point out the horse skull on the back porch while we wait for the door to open. It was Papa’s favorite horse. Papa steps out and invites us inside. Tucker has never been here before. It was going to just be a short visit, but I should have known better. Papa likes to talk these days. He likes to tell stories of growing up on the rez and shooting a bear out of a tree when he was ten and taking it home. Before he can get too far into it, I pull out my phone and start the voice recorder. I try to do that every time he starts talking. I feel like I need to remember for him. He tells about leaving the rez and getting baptized and meeting Grandma. He remembers ranching and his dogs. He remembers breaking wild ponies and when his dad died from getting bucked in the chest. He remembers his two babies who only lived a few weeks and learning that kids cannot be broken like horses. We all start crying as he talks about Grandma, his regrets and how his love has grown during the 15 years she’s been gone. He takes us back to his room and shows us the closet, all her dresses and shoes and jewelry exactly how she left them. He loves his family, but he misses her.

The day continues, and Papa just sits. The family gets ready for my recital, and Papa seats himself in the front row as I warm up. Grandma used to make me sing for her. Grandma would have bought my dress. Papa tries to keep doing those things now for her.

After the recital, I kiss my family goodbye. They’re traveling down to Arizona, and Papa stays sitting in his chair while we have family prayer.

Back in our own house, Tucker and I get in bed. After a few minutes, he asks, “Will you be sad when Papa dies? I mean, it was sad when your great-grandma died, but she was ninety-seven, and everybody knew it was time. But will it be harder with Papa?”

I stay silent as the tears well up. “He’s almost eighty-four. He’s lived a long life. He loves his family, but he misses Grandma. He’s doing fine for now, especially with his diabetes, but….

He just…..sits there…”