U is for Universe

It's either very late or very early, depending whether you are coming or going, but sit and I'll tell you my story. First, you need to know why this old leather-bound journal I have clutched to my heart means so much to me and why these tears of mine just won't stop.

I remember the day my mom announced over dinner that my pop had cancer. Her tone was crisp and even, her gaze hard but distant, and I knew there would be no point in asking the how's and why's of Pop's sickness, because in her mind there was nothing more to be said.

There never was.

Mom said as she worked all day at the hospital, someone had to stay home and take care of him, and that someone was me.

So, one summer when I was about twelve years old, my grandfather moved in with us. Up until that point, Pops had been a shadowy figure in my life—such as it was when he lived so far away. We had become acquainted through an old picture sitting among others on the mantle, of a man with stringy red hair and whiskered cheeks that framed the most enormous smile I'd ever seen.

The impression I'd given myself of this larger than life man was about to be threatened, but any hesitation I had was banished the moment he walked in the door, flashing me a toothy smile and singing, "The best things in life are free." But I was smart enough to see mom wasn't impressed. I smiled back shyly, and sensed a kindred spirit.

Pops came into my life as such a big man, but by the time summer had gone, he was skin and bones. The cancer had been relentless, and my pretty, perfect, bossy mom cried at night when she thought I couldn't hear… because she couldn't fix him.

Now, while most kids may have railed against having to spend their summer vacation babysitting a crazy grandparent, that summer changed my life. Pops was an amazing storyteller, and I soon found myself hanging onto his every word. He'd seen the world many times over, and late one night, when the cancer had made his life unbearable, he told me his last story. He had a Japanese friend who believed that after you die, you needed to spend three days in limbo. In this time, you choose one memory from your life to take with you to the afterlife. All other memories will be erased. He passed away that morning, and as I sat on the porch red-eyed and blotchy-faced, Mom gave me a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Kathleen, this is for you it seems. Naturally, my father forgot about me, his only child, but what's new there?"

I had wanted to wait until mom had left, but she stood there, tapping her foot with her customary impatience. I slowly unwrapped it, more to annoy her, and then I finally saw my gift. It was a beautifully bound leather journal, and on the inside cover he had written: Kitty-Kat, you are that memory. But know this… the universe will never be denied.

"Universe? Memories? This dribble is what he leaves you?" Mom clicked her tongue, and we never spoke of the journal or what he'd written in it again.

And nor my beloved pop.

The years flew by, and while I travelled the world, determined to make as many memories as I could, I always knew I'd come home. I survived war-torn countries, and lived in places where I thought I'd never leave… but I always would. And yet in all that time, I never found that one special memory I'd take with me to the after- life.

Then, in a military hospital deep within Cheyenne Mountain, the most secure place in the world, I met a man who saved a world. Wrapped in bandages, all I could see was his sky-blue eyes, but he told me stories that mesmerized me. Of a beautiful woman he had loved and lost. Of the man he called a brother who had caused it all. And despite the great pain he was in, he made me laugh while explaining his crusty, bad tempered, flawed best friend, who he'd miss more than anyone. I could see tears welling as he told of his brilliant soul-mate who he knew would one day change the world with her ideas. Then with a catch in his voice, he spoke of how much he would miss the man with the heart as big as Texas, who fondly called him son.

And I smiled through his rasped rendition of 'Row-row-row your boat," because even though I didn't know the significance of the moment, it clearly meant something special to him.

When the pain became too much, he'd stop talking and I told him a little of my journey. He nodded when I tried to explain, but couldn't finish, of how much I loved and missed my crazy grandfather. He whispered he thought his grandfather and mine would have been the greatest of friends.

The night wore on so slowly, and his friends came in one by one to say farewell. I felt I knew them all by more than just their reputation now, and the love there made it all seem somehow bearable. I went for a break, knowing when I returned that he'd be gone. I opened my journal, determined to write every single word but when I finished all I had was: His memories aren't done with yet; the universe will have to wait.

The end