Dear Papa Blidy,
I am writing this letter to you as a form of closure. I need to get a few things off my chest that I have been holding in for quite a while now. It`s almost like I have this weight on my back and I am hoping that writing this letter to you will somehow take some of that weight off, although I feel as though I may be carrying it for the rest of my life. I think I am okay with that in some weird way though.
Let me start off by saying that you were taken too soon, you and Nanny Tina both. I was always closer to you than Nanny, but I still don’t feel as though I had enough time with you. I remember little things here and there about coming to visit. I remember dad would to tell us how he would go to your house for lunch every day. I remember the smells of the apple pie Nanny would cook, and the chocolate chip cookies, and the rice pudding, and the red and green Jell-O, and the smell of the turkey we would always eat, and the stuffing, and the corn, and all the other smells that went along with our huge family meals. I remember all the laughs we would share around that little round table in your small crowded kitchen. Those aren’t the only things I remember; I carry them all.
I remember the long dreadful rides that seemed to be hours on end to North Bergen when I was a kid. After not living there for so long it seemed so much more like a city. I remember dad parallel parking next to your apartment and telling us to not open the doors on the side of the road, so we would all climb over each other to get out of the car, only to run up the stairs and barge into your apartment to find you and Nanny waiting for us patiently. It’s the little things I seem to remember, yet, it’s not enough; I carry this.
I remember how Britt and I would fight over that stupid, little, white, stool to see who was going to sit on it at dinner. I remember opening the window that led out to your roof and feeding the birds loaves of bread at a time. I remember the musical clowns that sat up on the wooden desk that you would love us to listen to while you would whistle to the beat. I remember sitting at that desk and writing you and Nanny letters that would be pinned to the fridge immediately after. Lastly, I remember the long car rides back home, and the wait until the next weekend. I carry this.
The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed. After Nanny passed away, it was like we couldn’t convince you to fight anymore. You were so pale. You didn’t even know who any of us were. It was like I didn’t even know you the little bit that I actually had. Mom and dad had us kids leaving thinking we would see you again soon. Lies. I still feel I was too young to understand what was going to happen. I remember having to watch all our cousins with Britt, since we were the oldest, while everyone drove down to the hospital to see you. All our parents told us was that, “Papa wanted to see them, but it was too late for you kids to go so we were going to have a big sleepover.” I never believed them. Shortly after, we were told that you “went to heaven.” I knew it all along. I carry those lies and the truth that I kept a secret.
I never really got to say goodbye. I was never able to tell you how much I loved you, and now how much I miss you calling me Brookie Cookie. I would do anything to go back and fight with Britt one last time over that stool, or hear you hum to those musical clowns you loved. I miss calling you Papa Superman. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about you or the memories we shared. I know dad misses you terribly by the way he always brings you up. I think that’s why it might hurt so badly for me, too because I know it hurts dad. I wish you could have hung on for a little longer to the point where I would be old enough to know to strengthen our relationship and understand. We all miss you. This is my closure, Papa. Some weight is now lifted off my back, though I will carry the pain forever in my heart.
Love,
Brookie Cookie
