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Pap’s Homecoming
 
Text Box: and would mistakenly urinate on the bathroom floor, but having been self-sufficient his entire life-he now detested having to rely on anyone for help. Even at his age, pride was something no one could take away from him, and he held on to it as fiercely as his dreams of leaving New York and going back to St. Lucia. A few items lay scattered on the red carpet. I picked them up, turned off the bathroom faucet, clicked on the bedroom light and sat down on the bed next to him. “Good Evening, Pap.” Monsieur Dean Bonsoir. “Good Evening, Mister Dean,” he always called me Mister Dean now. It was a running joke between us. The adult and child roles were now reversed, and this was his way of acknowledging it and still keeping his dignity. He bristled slightly when I reached for his hand to shake it, but he quickly greeted me with a hard squeeze and a smile. It was obvious where I get my charm from because anytime Pap smiled or laughed, it came from his soul. His hands calloused from a lifetime of hard work in the forests of St. Lucia reminded me that he was the Patriarch of the family, and it was by the sweat of his brow that my mom and her seven other siblings were fed. If not for him I wouldn’t be here. I owe him my life. We bantered back and forth, and he was at least for that short time able to forget the longing to go back home that ate at his soul. I imagined myself at his age living out my last days, and I would hope my son Jonathan would respect my last wishes I might make of him to let an old man spend his last days or years in peace in a place of my choosing. Every night the cries of my grandfather would break my heart because he deserved better. There was no one to watch over him in St. Lucia. All the kids had left a lifetime ago, and were now spread all around the world. If he went back home to live it would be in a home for the elderly. That would be a far greater injustice in my mind than to spend your last days among strangers instead of family. Pap’s only vice these days was coffee. He liked it strong with a touch of milk. He didn’t like the Equal crap so I always mixed in some real sugar with it to appease him. I reached for his hands as he sat up in bed, and placed them around the hot cup. The steam rose to greet his nose, and he inhaled it holding the scent in his nostrils, like a smoker inhaling the sweet scent of smoke. A smile of wistful reminisce crossed his face and I knew he was reliving a joyful memory. The cresses in his forehead rolled back and forth like waves, and with each smile he was receding further and further in time and away from the pain and loneliness in his heart. He sipped his coffee slowly still lost in thought, and I knew better than to intrude so I waited until he spoke again. Text Box: Mwen lé rentré bokay mwen. Tou lé jou mwen lé viré bokay mwen pou mâché an laforè a. Mwen ni bagay pou fè. “I want to go home. Every day I long to go home and walk in my forest. I have business to attend to,” he looked in my direction but not directly at me. His good nature had quickly turned to anger at seemingly being held prisoner. I had heard this conversation before and I repeated my familiar lines. “What do you want me to do Pap? There’s no one home to take care of you, and give you your medicine,” his answer was always the same. Tou sa ou lé mwen ké ba-ou, mé mènin mwen bokay mwen pou mwen sa mô. “Whatever you want I will give you. Just take me home to die,” he cried like a baby and I was helpless again. He curled himself into a fetal position as if asking to be reborn again. When he got like this there was no consoling him. Only sleep and dreams of happier times could be his friend right now. I turned up the heat because I knew sometime during the night his comforter would find itself on the floor, and the cold might kill him before a broken heart would. “Good night Pap,” his back was turned to me and he didn’t respond. Jézi, pouki ou kitté mwen? I heard him say as I walked up the stairs. Jesus Christ why have you left me?” I closed the door softly and went back to my room. I tossed and turned all night. Dreams of shadowy figures reaching out in the dark to me played in my mind, and every time I reached for a hand it would recoil into the darkness. Voices whispered to me, there were all around me, and they were all saying something in unison. A million voices with one request. My sheet was damp from sweat when I woke up even though it was the middle of winter. My vision was blurry as if I had been crying, but I couldn’t recall doing that. When my vision cleared I knew what I had to do. I wouldn’t really call it an Epiphany because the thought had always been there, but now it just seemed more urgent. Pap was still asleep. I could hear him snoring from downstairs. It was like an alarm clock that was always on. Snoring was genetic in our family so I was used to it. Between myself, Pap and my other two uncles living in the house our snoring could drive anyone to drink. My laptop crashed a few days ago so I went downstairs to use the desktop which only had dial up access. Dial up can make you want to pull your freaking hair from your head, nostrils, ears and anywhere else to dull the frustration. Dial up is like watching an elderly person cross the street. You’re screaming internally COME ON ALREADY, but they both take their sweet time and all you can do is wait. I found what I was looking for, and for the rest of the day I made preparations still not sure if I had the courage to do it. I would soon find out. Text Box: On Saturday and Sunday there’s no one home except for Pap and I so today would be the best time to implement my plan. Everything was packed. I packed our clothes for two weeks not really sure how long we would be staying in St. Lucia. I had decided to grant my grandfather’s wish and take him home. He was in the bathroom brushing his teeth so I made him some Oatmeal in the meantime. He looked tired today, and didn’t appear to have the energy to eat as he walked slowly to the table. He ate a few spoons and just sat there in silence. It was time. Papa, ess ou paré? “Pap, are you ready?” Paré pouki sa? “Ready for what?” He asked still disinterested. That’s when I told him where we were going. Je vous prends le PAP à la maison au soin de prise de vos affaires. Est ce ce que vous voulez, droit? “I’m taking you home Pap to take care of your business. That’s what you want, right?” When those words were spoken there was a noticeable shift of energy in the room. A minute ago he appeared lifeless, but the news of going home sent renewed energy through his body. He quickly swallowed the remainder of his Oatmeal and proclaimed himself ready to leave. D'aujourd'hui une bonne journée. Dieu a répondu à mes prières. “Today’s a good day. God has answered my prayers.” He mouthed the words thank you Jesus while looking to the sky in his mind. Later that evening I packed all his clothes and medication for an early morning departure. There would be hell to pay if my uncles got wind of my plan before we could leave. I would worry about the consequences later. We boarded Air Jamaica at JFK, and landed in St. Lucia by 2pm. Pap was so giddy with excitement that I had to tell him to calm down before he had a stroke. His fear of flying was forgotten for the moment. He was going home. Holding on to my left shoulder for support we stepped outside the plane, and the noonday sun beat down on us unmercifully, but at that moment there was no greater feeling in the world for him than to be back in his homeland. He squeezed my shoulder before we walked down the stairs. I patted him on his calloused hand. The wish of an old man had been granted. Two weeks later Pap died, but he spent those two weeks walking his land, inhaling the varied scents of all the fruits of the land he had planted and he was back in his home where he belonged. Not the house of his kids, but the home he had built and raised a family. He died in his sleep. The tears had stopped, and peace had found his heart in his last days in St. Lucia. Dean Jéan-Pierre 4:33pm…9-25-05
Text Box: His cries pierced the quiet winter night’s air and it sent cold shills down my back. It sounded like a wounded animal being killed, but I knew this wasn’t the case. Every night for the last three weeks it was the same cries of pain born of a deep profound loneliness for home echoing from the heating vents in the basement apartment and drifting to my upstairs bedroom. The first time it happened I laid there in the dark trying to figure where it was coming from because it sounded more like a cat trapped in the vents than the sounds of a blind ninety year old man crying like a child. I found him that night buried under his comforters lost in a conversation with himself, he would occasionally pause dramatically then quiet would fill the room, and he would start to cry all over again. The stairs leading down into the basement would creak violently as if they were about to collapse. Pap had insomnia like me and many nights I would check in on him, and he would be wide awake staring at the ceiling. He would fixate on one particular spot as if he could see something made privy only to him. He was living all the memories he had accumulated over a lifetime to keep him company now that he was blind. Even though he had been blind for the past five years and pushing almost a dollar, his senses were still as sharp as a young man in his 20’s. He would regale me on these nights with his exploits when he was a young man in St. Lucia: his many loves with women over the years and his varied opinions on every single subject. He was well versed in every topic known to man. He never learned English as a child in St. Lucia, and didn’t know how to read and write, so our conversations were always in Creole or Patwa. If he had been afforded the opportunity of an education there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish. Now, with his life behind him and death seemingly patiently waiting for him to close his eyes one more time; all he wanted now was some peace of mind and to leave this world in a place of his choosing. Ki moun ki la? “Who’s there?” he shouted looking directly at me without being able to see me. C'est votre petit-fils préféré. “It’s your favorite grandson,” I replied in Creole. Ti ich mwen kè mwen inmin passé lézot la pa té ké kitté mwen mô la adan an cave. “My favorite grandson wouldn’t let me rot in a basement,” he said. That’s one thing about Pap: his sarcasm. He was always quick with it and at times left you speechless at the things that would come out his mouth. We always think of old people as frail and weak, but even though blind, his mind and tongue were still sharp as a cutlass (long knife). The faint scent of stale urine sneaked out the bathroom which was right next to his bed. He had mastered maneuvering the bedroom, the bathroom and was able to find his clothes and get dressed by himself. There were still times when he lost his way,