To My First Love

I had not thought of you in quite some time. Oh, every now and then, your distant memory would come to the windows of my world and look in for just awhile. You and your blue eyes and snarky smile were whimsically seen but swiftly dismissed. But this time, well....you demanded to be let in. You intruded very unexpectedly, in fact.

What was it....forty years since we last saw each other? Yes, I believe that's correct. The "boys," our sons had been around ten and eight. It hadn't been a good meeting. Regrettably, two divorced parents arguing, each trying to hurt one another...childishly not considering the toll it took on our children. We had spoken on the phone years later...much more civilly. That was when our youngest, having reached adulthood, had been in a not-so-good situation. Both of us were openly concerned and heartfully sick with worry.

They grew up so quickly...you had been the distant father and I the mom who kept her sons close. You went on with your life. But I didn't mind. I had gone on with mine. I had long since given up hope of a family life with you. I didn't hate you. I had just grown up. High school was behind us and you had been my first love. I heard you had moved to Seattle for awhile. At one point you had a girlfriend. I was happy for you.

I had moved several times, too. And married twice more. By then, our sons had families of their own. Over those years, you met only three of the eight grandchildren...Caleb, Kylie, and Austen. I'm so grateful that you did. They call you "Pops." That fits you. You saw that your name would live on and that's good. You went fishing with them. They said you were a funny guy. They liked you a lot and they saw where their dads got their balding heads. Sorry, I admit, I laughed. You knew I would.

After the Covid pandemic, I retired. I moved from Texas to Louisiana to inherited land. Our oldest was divorced and his kids were basically grown, so he decided to move back to Louisiana to start over, too. Our youngest son came to join us last year. I had mentioned to them on several occasions that we would be less than 100 miles from you there and they should plan to meet up with you. I know that, perhaps the relationship you shared with them as sons and father weren't as cozy and close as they could or should have been, but there had always been unspoken love going both ways.

Since retiring, I frequently do ancestral/genealogic research. I make family trees for my family. That is when and how you chose to sneak up on me again after all those by-gone times. It was in March of 2022 when I encountered you again. There you were.

Your obituary:

Michael David Pappa, Sr.

September 25, 1956 - May 8, 2019.

I read it five times before I could grasp the meaning. Your sisters had no way of getting in touch with us. We had been terrible at keeping in touch. I frantically looked for phone numbers and addresses to no avail. I did a people search online and left a phone message with your dad. I didn't even know if he would still be alive. Doing the math in my head, he had to be close to ninety years old.

Then I came to the realization that I would have to tell our sons of your passing. I so did not want to face that. The newspaper had no details. Had you been sick long? Had there been an accident? Dear God, please don't let it be suicide. Was there a familial disease we needed to know about? So many questions surmounted my anxiety.

And then the memories of you and of us came flooding back, wave after wave. I was seventeen again. How could this be real? I was feeling the bitterness of the pain and the raw emotion of losing that innocent love we had shared. Our first kiss, the skating rink, the long night talks, the newness of relationship, the dreams, the harsh reality of two unprepared young lives making a child and then another. It all came back. Like a slap in the face. And now you were gone.

Almost two weeks went by before your sister called to fill us in on the details. You had never re-married. You'd had a small apartment and an isolated existence. You had not been well mentally for awhile. But you had called your family to let them know you had swelling in your legs and had driven yourself to the hospital. You never left from there. Your heart had failed.

I just remember once you had asked me something I thought to be strange at the time. You asked me (almost to promise) that if we had ever broken up and I married again, to always love you still. Now, I can honestly say to you that I can keep that promise. I love our memory and I love our sons whom I see you in at fleeting moments. I love our grandchildren and our legacy. I hope your body, mind, and soul are at peace now. Rest, sweet man and thank you.