My Favorite Place

I wrote this many, many years ago, but thought it appropriate to post in memory of Papa.

I always sat on that desert brown carpet, wall-to-wall, still bearing vacuum tracks, in my grandparents’ living room. Behind me a coffee table supported my pillow from which I would occasionally pull out embroidered beads when no one was looking. The coffee table matched the end tables that held matching lamps with fringed shades. The elaborately detailed sofa, ornate yet worn, supported Nana on one end; her legs extended to the coffee table in front of her. Her feet rested atop another beaded pillow, which I had not yet gotten a hold of. Papa’s form embedded itself in the burlap, muddy brown chair near the spindled entryway of the kitchen. I remember the plastic tree that hugged the far corner, which was decorated with little white lights at Christmas. It bore no sign of dust. Dust dare not collect there. We all sat in our respective places, eyes fixed upon the television beneath the bow window overlooking the street full of autumn leaves. Mesmerized by shows of cops and robbers, and the one about a lawyer whose name Nana never could pronounce, there we sat – enthralled, speaking only during the commercial breaks to once again be silenced by the program’s return.

Though we existed within that room full of antique furniture and television drama, the commercials became the biggest blessing. It was then we came together – then when my grandparents told stories of days past; of their restaurant, laundry, and old cars and how Nana once drag-raced my uncle…and won! Here is where my history was created. Here is where I grew up a little more every afternoon. Here is where I lived and loved the most. Here is where I became who I am today. And here is where I now sit, on my spot on the desert rug. No more vacuum tracks. A little bit of dust has collected on the tree. The pillow does not support Nana’s feet and the burlap chair is bare. I hold the beaded pillow in my hand, suppressing old desires to pull off the embroidery. I lift the coffee table to unveil years of beads collected. One by one I sew them back on. I dust off the plastic green leaves in the corner of the room and plug in the vacuum.

On the television, a drama portrays a police chase, and I lie down in front on the vacuum tracks, place my hand on the beaded pillow…and begin to cry.

I love you, Papa . . . and I'm so grateful for your part in my life.