The basement door creaks open and I reach for the lightswitch like I had a thousand times in my youth. A little higher than where it should be, but my fingers brush the little lever with easy memory. A simple flick of my index finger and the darkness of the basement is quickly basked in light from multiple 60 watt bulbs attached to the floor joices from the upper level. I take a deep breath, not completely sure what I will find in my parent's basement after all these years. The first step groans under my foot, just like it had all those years ago when Pop built Matty and I our own rooms in the basement.
The first night Matty was scared and ended up in my bed. The second night, I pulled the covers back for him when I heard my door being pushed open. On the third night, Matty started off in my room. This went on for weeks and we never told Ma and Pop because we weren't about to give up our new rooms. Finally one night, Matty stayed in his own room all night and I remember laying in bed thinking he didn't need me anymore. And that idea upset me.
I take a few more steps and think of Pop. He went to work every morning, stayed until they didn't need him anymore, came home and took care of his family. When he found the time to build us rooms in our basement is beyond me. I was so proud of mine and couldn't wait to show it off to all of my friends. And each one of them knew that my Pop built it just for me.
Ma has since turned them into catch-alls with all of the stuff us kids never took when we all moved out… and then some. I'm to the bottom of the steps and I stop, not sure that I can tackle the task before me. I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder offering just the right amount of comfort and support.
Steve.
When I got the call that Pop had passed away, I was devastated. Steve was in the kitchen with me when I answered the phone call from Stella. I hit the floor, a sobbing mess. He had his arms around me in an instant and I knew I wouldn't be going home alone.
I made arrangements to stay for two weeks. The service passed in a blur. And I'm not even sure how any of us made it through intact. Everyone loved Pop. His Firehouse guys were a constant presence at the house in the days surrounding Pop's funeral. There were stories galore about Eddie Williams. The hero, the friend, the confidante, loving husband, fantastic father… no one uttered an unkind word about my Pop.
Ma asked me to help sort through a few things in the basement. Asked me if I wanted any of Pop's old tools. I told her I did, but I couldn't take them home… I couldn't take them back to Hawaii with me. I'd have to have them shipped at a later time. I just couldn't… couldn't take them just yet because then it would make it final.
I felt a squeeze to my shoulder and I stole the strength Steve was offering me that I didn't have myself. I stopped at my old bedroom, took a quick peek in the door and felt a tear trickle down my cheek. I flipped on the switch, pushed open the door and stood in awe at what Pop had done to my old room. Amongst all my high school trophies for baseball, Stella's awards from the drama club, Bridget's Honor's Diploma and every other smarty pants award she ever received, Matty's math awards… nestled in between all of our accomplishments as kids, were our accomplishments as adults. There were pictures of the grandkids with him and Ma, pictures of Steve and I at our wedding, my Police accommodations and news clippings. Something for each of us four kids. In the corner of the room where my bed used to be was a recliner and lamp with an end table that held the newest copy of the TV guide. This was Pop's man-cave. Surrounded by memories of his children.
I wondered if he cleaned out my closet. Got rid of all the baseball cards and football cards I had collected over the years. When I opened up the closet door, I was taken aback by the strong smell of ash. This was where Pop retired his fireman uniforms. The tears began to collect in the corner of my eyes again as I knelt down and pulled out the worn pair of boots that protected his feet. Worn black rubber boots, still covered in ash and soot from his last fire fought. It was a tradition amongst his firehouse guys.
I hear Steve ask me if I'm okay and I can't even respond. Pop was my hero and now he's gone. I no longer want any of his tools, even though some belonged to my grandfather as well.
No, what I want are the boots that my hero wore.