Freckled Toe

My mood lingers on remembrance and succumbs to mourning one long lost:

Papa – my first love. He will always smell of tobacco and oranges in my memory. My grandfather, always with flecks of grey ash littering his fresh pressed short-sleeved dress shirt and a sweat stain rimming the inside edge of his straw fedora.  Pale blue eyes behind thick yellowed glass grew warm at each correctly answered query on animals and geography; his prize pupil he’d call me.  Pockets of ugly brown slacks were treasure troves of caramelized coconut and watermelon flavored hard candies. He salted the real melon and laughed at my nose, wrinkled in astonished disgust. 

My first sip of coffee came from his overly white and sweetened mug; my first sip of beer an accidental taste of Bud in a red plastic cup sat carelessly close to my own of apple juice – an innocent mistake he guffawed over for what seemed like hours as I sputtered in distaste.

And always, Papa, with his slim brown cigarettes and ink stained fingertips.  We walked orange groves together, summer upon summer while the scents of tobacco and oranges grew heavy on sun rippened air.

He remains my ideal of care and craze, insanity and genius.  My Papa taught me wonder and showed me love. 

Fifteen years gone, I miss him still.