How extravagant was it that my father made my siblings and me call him, Poppa when we were growing up, especially since people poked fun of us for doing so. When I was yet knee high and as ignorant as Adam and Eve was before they sunk their teeth into that apple, I had no problem calling my father, Poppa. But when I got older, able to smell myself, so to speak, and became wise like Adam and Eve became after their teeth sinking incident, calling my father Poppa became a really, big deal breaker for me. For one, my poppa looked more like my grandfather than he did my father. He was thirty years older than my momma and was already sixty years old when I was born. And having to call that old man, Poppa in front of my friends was a deal breaker to its max. Without fail, too, if I was ever asked once, I was…show more content… I was dazed beyond relief because when I saw my father during lunch time that day, I had no earthly idea he would die, that day. But after we received the call, the doctor’s words rushed in on me like a light that switched on: “You know your father is dying?” The doctor had said. And I had said, “Yes” but “no” should have been my response. No, because I did not know my father was dying, at least I didn’t know he was dying, right then. What I knew, or better yet, what thought I knew was, Poppa would die soon, but not today. I did not know my father was actually in the process of dying when I laid eyes on him during lunch, that day. Butterflies still flutter against my stomach when the slightest thought or mentioning of the mis-opportunity to share my father’s final moment with him before he stepped over into eternity. He stepped over into eternity more than twenty years ago, at the ripe-old-age of ninety-four. Today, I am not only wise, I am wiser. With that wisdom I would give all I have call my father, Poppa once again and to hear him say, “That’s my baby daughter.” Now, how extravagant would that
