Pappou
By Ophelia Monet
July 15, 2024
July 15, 2024
You drive with both hands on the wheel, ten and two,
just like you taught me, taught my brother. It’s how you will insist on someday teaching my son, your grandson, now only two, but soon to be sixteen if we close our eyes for but a moment too long. You showed up on our doorstep last week, unannounced, with a pot of soup you had made— from scratch, you assured us, as you listed off the ingredients and instructions from memory. We never do remember the ingredients and instructions, but we love listening as you excitedly talk through your proud accomplishment, so we allow it every time. My sweet boy ran from the other room once he heard your voice, Pappou! Pappou! There are few things he loves more than you. When I was growing up, I remember multiple occasions when a friend would grieve the loss of a grandparent, and I felt two things in those moments-- confusion, for I could not understand loving a grandparent strongly enough to grieve so deeply, and jealously, for I had desperately wished that I could. I never had a relationship with any grandparents, and it brings raw joy to my beating chest to see how different his experience will be. I watch you ladle soup into his bowl, watch him break into fits of giggles as he readies himself for a dinner cooked by Pappou, and I realize then that I am not confused, nor am I jealous; I am thrilled— for both him and you, but also for myself. |
Ophelia is an educator, mother, and storm chaser (yes, really), living in Fort Wright, Kentucky with her husband and their son. She began writing in 2022, after learning that her late mother was a published writer under a pseudonym. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Unleash Lit, Loud Coffee Press, Blue Lake Review, and more. She can be found on Instagram at @mysoullaidbare.
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Author’s Note:
This poem holds a special place in my heart, as it is about my father and my son, and the sweet, loving relationship between them. My father immigrated to the United States from Greece when he was sixteen years old, leaving the majority of his family behind in order to start anew. This meant that I never really knew my grandparents on his side, and I was not close with my mother's parents. My son is my father's first grandchild, and my father is my son's favorite person on the planet, so much so that one of my son's first words was “pappou,” meaning “grandpa” in Greek.