Stained White T-Shirt
A complicated memory
I was standing there.
At the funeral home.
Looking at a display of pictures from my father’s life.
And I saw it. A picture of my dad’s dad. My papaw.
He was pictured with his two sons. He was wearing a stained white t-shirt.
This had to be quite a few years before I remember meeting him.
But my memory of Papaw was of a short, strong, thick man with jet black hair and yellowed skin wearing a stained white t-shirt.
His habit was to come home from work and shower. Then put on a white t-shirt and shorts. No matter the weather in his central Ohio town, Papaw was in shorts and a white t-shirt unless he was going to work.
His teeth were yellow from smoking two packs a day. His eyes dark but sparkling.
He was always thrilled to see me, it seemed. Always had a gift. He’d have me on his knee and a cigarette in his hand and we’d laugh.
I wondered how often he bought those shirts. 10 at a time every 6 months, maybe?
He was 58 and I was 6 when he died. Cancer. The smoking took its toll.
I hadn’t really thought about him — not in that detail — for a long time. He was the first close…
