Pap
When I was a toddler
both of my parents worked, which meant I obviously had to have some sort of
adult supervision during the day. Mom
would drop me off at my grandparents and then she would catch the bus downtown
to go to work. I think I was pretty
fortunate to have my grandparents watch me when I was a youngster. Especially since I am sure daycares were not
as popular back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s and not as regulated and
managed as they are today.
It’s weird the
things that you remember from childhood.
I remember watching my mom walk to the bus stop from my grandparents
place. And other things like my
grandmother making me lunch and creating a little table out of a chair so I
could watch TV and eat my lunch in their living room, or begging my grandfather
to play Barbie’s with me or the very distinct layout of their home, even how
there was a mirror above where the sofa was located.
I also vaguely
remember my grandfather getting sick for the first time. I remember things like him laying on the sofa
and my grandmother changing his bandages.
I remember the word CANCER being spoken in the house. I didn’t know what all this talk of cancer
was though… I wasn’t even in Pre-school yet… I was just learning my “near” and
“far” thanks to Grover on Sesame Street. I could tell it wasn’t good but I just
didn’t know how bad it really was. I was
kept in the dark about it for the most part, mostly due to my age. My family didn’t want to tell me all the gory
details, and I don’t blame them. At the
age of three I wouldn’t have been able to comprehend what was truly going on or
the severity of it.
I would think to
myself, my grandfather is a strong man, he is very tall and he fought in WWII,
he will fight this cancer thing too.
Like I said, I had no idea the severity of cancer so I thought it was
just like a bad cold or an infection or something of that nature; I had no idea
that he had a tumor the size of a grapefruit taken out of him. For the most
part, I was right about my pap fighting cancer.
He went into remission after several chemotherapy treatments.
For the next 14 years
my grandfather would go in and out of remission. Every time the doctor would give my family
the bad news, I would just tell myself that my grandfather is a fighter he will
survive this, he did it before he can do it again. He won’t quit, he won’t die, he just won’t.
He went into the hospital, and we would visit, I always hated going to the
hospital – something about that disinfectant smell that freaks me out. It makes me ill, that smell, makes me queasy
almost paralyzed. When I was young the
doctors wouldn’t let me go into his room.
I sitting in the waiting room at Montefiore Hospital as my mom and
grandmother would take turns visiting my pap.
I also remember a stuffed animal in the shape of a cat that I was given
to keep me occupied.
Over the years every morning mom and I would go see my
grandparents before she would go off to work and I would go off to school. By this time I was in high school rebellious
and angry at the world like all teenagers.
We found out that pap had cancer again and he wasn’t getting better this
time; he was getting worse and could barely get out of bed. In all the years I had never seen him this
sick before. Not eating, not drinking,
and not moving. It wasn’t the cancer
that was killing him; it was an infection that he somehow got while in the
hospital. He was given hospice care and could stay at home.
I remember that cold
February day like it was yesterday. My
sister and I didn’t go to school that day; it was cancelled because of
snow/ice/freezing temperatures. We
stayed at my grandparent’s house, I remember locking myself in my old bedroom,
curling up in his chair (that was moved there when I moved out) and crying a lot,
streams and streams of tears running down my face. I didn’t want him to die but this would be
it, this would be the end of his fight. I knew it and there wasn’t a damn thing
I could do about it. I remember the nurse
patting me on my shoulder, telling me it was going to be ok. I didn’t believe her. How could it be ok? I was about to lose my grandfather…
My father came by and
took me for food. I would just go home
afterwards because mom said she and my sister would be going home shortly. I got home from dinner and mom was still not
there. Then the phone rang. It was my sister, I could hardly understand
he over the violent crying sounds she was making. She told me to sit down… that is when I knew
it… that our grandfather had just died.
It was all very surreal, like a scene out of a movie or something, when
the bad news is about to come, you tell the person to sit down. Why? It didn’t help me take the news any
better. We were both crying hysterically
on the phone. Neither one of us wanted
to hang up the phone.
I knew he would not
be suffering anymore, that this was a better alternative than going through all
the radiation and chemotherapy treatments, but damn it I am a little
self-fish. I didn’t want him to die. I
wanted him to be there when I graduated, when my sister graduated, and for all
the other important events in our lives. I knew he would not be suffering
anymore, that this was a better alternative than going through all the
radiation and chemotherapy treatments, but damn it I am a little self-fish. I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to be
there when I graduated, when my sister graduated, and for all the other
important events in our lives.
We buried him on that
Valentines Day. It has been 18 years since that fateful day in February. It’s funny the things that remind me of him even today, a TV show re-run or seeing a train from the line he worked, or his birthday. A few years back a friend was having a psychic party, and I went to just see what it was all about. Not that I believed in such things mind you. The woman was very spiritual; she told me a few things about my grandfather then mention that his spirit is with me. Whether she was full of malarkey or not, it was comforting to hear.
Nicole Leckenby is
co-founder/editor of The Holiday Cafe.
She works full-time at the University of Pittsburgh and runs after a
very energetic two year old at home. She
wrote her first book, My Crazy Life in 2008 and is currently working on a
second.
Wishing
Star gazing at midnight.
Pumping my feet in and out
Like I was
taught when I was 5.
The cold chains quickly warm up under my hands.
Sporadic cedar chips kick up
As I knick
the ground with the tips of my toes.
No light pollution infects the oil black sky.
Only thousands of stars accompany me.
It’s hard to pick one for my wish.
The chains creak as I sway back and forth.
The summer breeze teases my hair
And
whispers secrets to me.
I finally pick a star.
It dimly twinkles amongst its lighter
Brothers
and sisters.
Too modest to stand out, the moonlight nearly mutes it to
silence.
My eyes clamp tightly.
My breath holds prisoner until I release my wish.
My hands clamp tighter on the warm rusty chains.
They grasp
until they turn from pale to white.
I make my wish on that modest star.
All tension melts and I continue to gaze.
Dawn isn’t far enough away…
Cathy graduated from Duquesne University with a BA in
English. She started writing poetry in
middle school and has accumulated thousands of pieces over the years. She has attended poetry readings, slams, and
open mic nights. She has also created
and produced two spoken word CDs.
This passion has never waned even when life has poked its intrusive
self in the way.
City of Your
Youth
For D.S.
Pittsburgh: five o'clock December dusk
drapes stubborn houses burrowed into hills,
spills down concrete stairways slapped
with street signs by the gods of planning.
Commuters crush their crumbling cigarettes,
burnt offerings to the rush hour bus.
The city of your youth stops breathing.
Between golden scrolls, the hands
of Kaufmann’s Clock start up once more.
To underscore your wavering skyline,
one spike of memory. The
Gulf Building’s
pyramid, that flaring barometer:
blue-orange, blue-orange, eternity.
ANGELE ELLIS's poetry has appeared on a theater marquee (after winning Pittsburgh Filmmakers' 2009 G-20 Haiku Contest), and along with her prose, in a number of periodicals, journals, and anthologies. She is the author of Spared (Main Street Rag), a 2011 Editors' Choice Chapbook Selection, and Arab on Radar (Six Gallery Press). A 2008 recipient of a poetry fellowship from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts and a 2007 prizewinner in the RAWI Competition for Creative Prose, Angele lives in Pittsburgh's Friendship neighborhood.
Whiskey From When You Were Born
O no! I’ve lost track of the last pour and for all I know it’s the first time come around once more!
Will you please let me know if I’m embarrassing myself, if I’m blazing brilliantly as I believe
Then please do not interrupt there are people here who need to know these things, all the things
Whispering ‘round this clutched and smoke blown air. O life. O my. Honey hands all in my hair!
Will you please let me know if I’m embarrassing myself, if I’m blazing brilliantly as I believe
Then please do not interrupt there are people here who need to know these things, all the things
Whispering ‘round this clutched and smoke blown air. O life. O my. Honey hands all in my hair!
What will you pay for these kisses, my love - all the gooey green dug from deep in the wet caves
Of these cushions, all the tender red rages sizzling in your solar plexus, all the brown beery burps
Lurching like a new dance move from down in our bellies. Ah! La! Ta-da! We are magic how we make Whole liquid worlds disappear. Are you my bunny, baby? Be my bunny, baby! Let’s do the Lover’s Leap!
Of these cushions, all the tender red rages sizzling in your solar plexus, all the brown beery burps
Lurching like a new dance move from down in our bellies. Ah! La! Ta-da! We are magic how we make Whole liquid worlds disappear. Are you my bunny, baby? Be my bunny, baby! Let’s do the Lover’s Leap!
How late it’s become. Now comes the creeping daylight and all the mortal shocks and all that jazz.
The bloodshot dawn is such a cruel friend. Yes, it reassures that yes we are alive and yes didn’t we stirUp some very fine nonsense in the night yes yes yes you are so very lovely in this newborn light
Love, we are spent o love we are the only currency to hold its value in this new world.
The bloodshot dawn is such a cruel friend. Yes, it reassures that yes we are alive and yes didn’t we stirUp some very fine nonsense in the night yes yes yes you are so very lovely in this newborn light
Love, we are spent o love we are the only currency to hold its value in this new world.
Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor at Pittsburgh Magazine. He runs Low Ghost Press. He also owns Desolation Row Records and manages Caliban Bookshop in Oakland. His most recent chapbook is "Last Call" published by Speed & Briscoe in 2010.
A painting by Mary Dunn
Mary Dunn holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Carlow University in Business and a Master's degree from Carnegie Mellon University in Public Management. She is a member of the Pittsburgh Society of Illustrators, Pittsburgh Pastel Artist League and sits on the board of the Steel Valley Arts Council. She has been drawing and oil painting at an early age. Her love for art never ceases and through the years, it has become a way of expression and relaxation. Mostly self-taught, she has worked primarily in oils; however, recently she has been working in pastels, acrylics, and watercolors.
If you wish to contact Mary regarding her art, please email Nicole @ holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com Nicole will pass all emails to Mary. Thank you, THC
Staying Afloat
Photo taken by Erik Rueter
Erik Rueter works full-time as a communications expert for the educational non-profit Manchester Bidwell on Pittsburgh's North Shore. Somehow he still finds time to do freelance graphic design and photography. He enjoys running, getting tattoos and coercing his loving husband into going to hip hop concerts
If you wish to contact Erik regarding her art, please email Nicole @ holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com Nicole will pass all emails to Erik. Thank you, THC
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