Falling Apples

Happy Birthday to my Pops. Turns sixty-seven today. Told me that according to some symbolism or other (Tarot cards? I couldn't really understand what he said), the number 67 means "stabbing."

Sixty seven.

I remember calling him when I turned twenty-eight, so many moons ago. Tough guy that he was (and still is) he just sighed and remarked that I had finally reached the age he was when I was born. Gave one of his Cuban expressions, cracked a joke. But something about me turning twenty eight made him sigh a lot longer and louder than I had ever heard.

Maybe in that one quick exchange he reflected on his own life, his own accomplishments --or the lack thereof. Never thought to ask Pops about his dreams. Don't even know if he ever really had any. Can't remember him ever working towards any goal past the rent money.

What I do remember is him packing his bags one day, and Moms poppin' shit even after we could see his car pull down the block and around the corner from all the way up on our fourth floor window.

His only attempt at a family after that was with a Cuban lady in Miami, but my sis and I deaded that shit right after Moms died and the lady wouldn't stop running her mouth, opinionating on Moms' comings and goings. Or so we thought. For all I know, he might've wanted to break camp long before that, but didn't know how to.

Good thing he didn't have any children with her. No kids to remember him packing his bags. Nope. That one fell to me and Sis.

And so he went, the eternal blue-collar bachelor dude, putting in his hours at the gig, having more than a few Millers with his expatriated homies at the local watering spot after work, flirting with this waitress or that laundromat attendant. Day in, day out. Nigga even scooped up a lady who pushed her own hotdog cart once.

When 'Welo died, and 'Wela was left alone to fend against the wolves, Pops had to slow his roll somewhat. And now 'Wela has Alzheimer's, and seems to believe she's back in Cuba, circa 1940-something, and she can't be left alone. His roll has come to a complete stop.

And Pops, for reasons that I'm only now beginning to really understand, has to spend his birthday watching TV and making sure 'Wela doesn't wander off or otherwise hurt herself, instead of surrounded by his children and their children. His family.

Me, I believe Pops just never had it in him. Just wasn't his thing. Hard enough when you're reluctant.

Helluva thing, to be the constant gardener. You've got to have it in you. And me, I'm only now beginning to understand that sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can not get the falling apples in my backyard to land far enough away from that tree.

Happy Birthday to my Pops.