Do you remember that time when I ran into your kitchen, slammed my empty ice cream mug onto your counter, and jumped into your embrace? Even though my feet were already ten feet off the ground, the spoon was still banging against the rim of the cup. I was filled with as much happiness as an eight-year-old could possess, and my smile stretched for miles. I can still hear the deep exhale from your chest and the crackling of your laugh. I was much too big to be in your arms, but you didn’t mind. As you put me down, I stood up straight and looked at you with admiration.

“Thanks so much, Pop, for having me. I can’t wait until next Saturday! Good-bye!”

I could see the smile slowly drain from your face. It was replaced with a weird look, one I had never witnessed before. As you got down on your knee and the keys clipped to your belt clanged like the church bell next door, I started to get worried. Had you noticed the extra helping of ice cream I took? Had I not made my bed that morning?

When I had just about exhausted every criminal act of the past couple days, you calmly said, “Julia, I am not going anywhere and neither are you, so good-bye is not the proper farewell. It’s goodnight. Goodnight and until next time, okay?” I nodded and slowly walked out of the kitchen, bidding you “Goodnight and until next time.”

Do you remember that time when I was sitting in the back seat of your white Crown Victoria after you had just gotten me from school? When you picked me up, you parked in the bus lane. Even though the curb was painted yellow and there were “No parking” signs galore, you didn’t care; you didn’t want Gram to have to walk across the parking lot. It’s okay that you did that. I didn’t tell the bus monitor the next day.

When I slid into the comfy leather seats, I made sure I was right behind you. Your white hair poked through the hole between the headrest and the seat, and I could just barely see the corner of your glasses in the rearview mirror. Gram sat next to me because she didn’t want me to be alone in the back. While she tightly grasped the handle above the window, my fingers were moving around the door, playing with the window button, door lock, and ashtray. However, our free hands were joined in the middle, right above the hump that the center seat formed.

As you silenced the sports radio, I waited for you to ask me about my day. I could not wait to tell you about the project I was working on for social studies or the latest installment of my four-square tournament. Finally the question came and I spewed out words a million miles a minute.

“And then we were on the blacktop and Mrs. Brosewitz came out and finally unlocked the cage with our balls, which we had been waiting for forever, ya know? And Michael and I both reached for the red one (because that one is the best) and when I got it first I was so excited! Ya know?”

A little cough and readjustment of the rearview mirror was all that you needed to stop me mid-story. “Julia, Gram, and I are both listening. It is not necessary to ask us if ‘we know.’ You don’t have to draw us back into the conversation to check if we are still here. We are. Trust me. So start over.”

Although Gram swatted the side of your seat with the back of her hand and gave a stern “Mario!” you stood by what you said, explaining that it was important for me to understand these things. I started my story over, being mindful of the “ya know”s.

Do you remember how you would always reprimand my mother when we arrived at your home without coats on? I would hear you explain about the cold and the sickness that we were going to catch. My mother would mutter something under her breath, then apologize for risking our lives and not listening to what you always told her.

I remember how you would rush into the Little Room to get me one of your sweaters right before I left. You would bring one still attached to the hanger, hand it to me, and then go back and get a scarf that matched. No matter how many times I pleaded that it was spring and warm outside, it didn’t matter. There was no way you were going to change your mind, and no way I was stepping through that glass door onto the front porch without your sweater and matching scarf.

After a while my mom caught on, and every time we were outside your brick house on Herron Avenue, my brothers and I weren’t allowed to get out of our white minivan without either our coats or hers. She would give us the same speech about the cold and how much she cared about us and our well-being, and in the end, despite our complaints, we would be bundled up as if it were mid-January. You should know that to this day I will not walk out of my house without a coat or a sweater.

Do you remember that last Sunday dinner we had at your house in early May, right before I left? I wished you good-bye, and we both knew that I did not need to be corrected.

Good-bye, Papa.