I can’t make scrambled eggs without thinking about my Pepere.
Donat was his name. He was very proud of his French-Canadian roots and spoke French fluently. He had a gentle disposition and a soft aura that surrounded him. He had thinning grey hair, bright blue eyes, and wore glasses most of the time. While small in stature, his personality was larger than life. His strength came in the form of authenticity and courage. He was fearless; traveling, exploring, and trying new things. He held firm boundaries and wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He was genuine in every interaction he had with others. His kindness was limitless and profound. He only asked for help when he really needed it and would never hesitate to help another person in need.
We had regular visits with each other; donuts and coffee at his house before I went into work, lunch at the local diner on my break. Eating meals together was a point of connection for us. On occasion, we would go for a walk or visit an antique store. I worked at the elementary school down the street from his house and had a long break between shifts. It was a perfect way to spend my time.
Walking into his apartment felt like walking into a sauna. He kept the heat at 80 degrees at all times in the winter and rarely turned on the air conditioning. I loved the tropical feel of his home. Tiny knick-knacks sat on top of a shelf, not a speck of dust in sight. The bookshelf was filled with autobiographies and classic novels. A row of VHS tapes lined the bottom shelf, featuring some of his favorite opera concerts and Gone With The Wind. His sofa chair sat next to a small table with a house phone and a coaster with a small glass of water on it.
He lived alone following the death of his longtime partner, Bob. Bob died many years ago after a painful battle with lung cancer. Although he was alone, he never allowed himself to be lonely. He had close friends that he spent time with and became a regular at the local gym. He had many passions including antiquing, genealogy, and history. He walked his own path, never worrying about what others thought.
One morning, we planned to eat breakfast at his place before I went into work. He insisted that he would cook eggs for us. I walked into his apartment, took of my coat, and sat down at the small kitchen table. He was already hard at work over the stove. He cracked the eggs into a bowl, mixed in some water, and poured them into the pan. He became increasingly frustrated as the eggs cooked.
“Ah! The eggs always fuckin’ shrink.”
We both laughed. He rarely used curse words, but when he did, it was followed by laughter.
“It’s fine, Pepere! We will have extra toast.”
Whenever I make scrambled eggs, I watch them shrink. I think about that day and how much we enjoyed being in each other’s company. That’s all I’ve got left of him now, the memories.
He had doilies all over the house- under lamps, inside drawers, on top of tables. They were crocheted with love by the ladies at the senior center, each one with different colors and patterns. Every once in a while he would take a bag out of the closet and let me pick a few to take home.
A couple of years ago, I started to suppress my memories of him. If I don’t remember, I won’t feel pain. That’s how it works- right?
Every now and then, the memories make their way back into my mind.
I reach down to a small table in the living room and remove the pink and green doily to dust underneath it. A sharp pain hits my temple as I squint my eyes. I can physically feel a memory trying to reveal itself- but I won’t let it. I throw the doily back down on the table and continue cleaning.
Blocking out the memories has been a way to protect myself from feeling the pain of losing him.
Grief manifests itself as human emotions. At any given moment, a memory that is triggered by grief can invite feelings of anger, sadness, guilt, sorrow, regret, uncertainty, or anxiety. It never goes away- it just lies dormant until we remember.
One of the most painful things that I have ever gone through in my life was saying goodbye to my Pepere. Even at the end of his life, he illuminated the room with light and joy.
The next stage of my grieving process, after 4 long years without him, is to remember his existence back into my life. I know it won’t be easy, but I know that the only way to move forward with grief is to move through it and to feel it fully. I think I owe it to him to live on in my heart, rent free.