Rocky purred as he rubbed against my crisscrossed legs and shoes. Stray hairs clung to my black leggings. I knew he hadn’t been brushed in a while. His wet nose nudged my hand to keep petting him. Tears streamed from my eyes.
Rocky continued to purr despite small showers on his back. I had gotten him a new bed, and I placed it where his old one had been. It was worn and covered in hairballs. I tossed it in the backyard.
Rocky rolled onto his back, his blind eye facing up toward me. Glossed over and lifeless, I still blinked at him as he purred, a sign of trust and affection with cats. I wanted Rocky to know that I was there for him, that I wouldn’t leave.
I had to leave soon, but as Rocky slept in his new bed, I looked around my pop-pop’s abandoned basement. A sign on the printer in his handwriting. Broken. Do not use. Stacks of letters from charities he had donated to. A box full of coins he had collected, mostly quarters and a two-dollar bill in plastic wrap. A gift bag hanging above his workspace, writing visible on the tag. Happy Father’s Day. We love you.
It all felt empty. Tears formed dark, uneven ovals as they hit the tile floor. I thought of him sitting in his desk chair, doing work that never stopped. For my uncle’s restaurant, for the church, for my nana’s aides. I thought of sitting on the exercise bike at the desk’s side. Peddling and talking about my day, watching the wind from the bike blow paper bags’ edges. Jackets hung from the bike now. They still smelled like him.
I thought of his smile, his glasses, the wedding ring always on his finger. The hats he wore, even inside. The hats I bought for him sitting lonely on the basement’s wooden shelves.
University of Delaware. Disney. #1 Grandpa.
Tacked to the shelves were pictures I’d drawn as a child and books I’d created for him to read. I was never much of an artist, but there they hung, over ten years later.
Boxes of unopened staples stacked high on his desk. Boxes like the one he’d sent me freshman year after I told my mom I ran out of staples. Like the one I still keep on my desk to this day. Keep away from fingers. Love you, Grandpa.
I stood up, waved goodbye to Rocky and pulled on the string of the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling tiles. The basement went dark.
When I was young, I called my pop-pop “Lightbulb” after the cartoon ones that appear over characters’ heads when they have an idea because he was so smart. He was my lightbulb and my light.
He always helped me with my math homework, even when I thought I didn’t need it anymore. He made grilled cheese sandwiches as we worked. The best in the world. Butter the bread on both sides first. That was the secret, he’d say.
Sometimes after school, I’d go to his house and say I forgot the key to mine across the street. Sometimes I really did. In the den, with Rocky on his lap, we’d talk for hours. Rocky would meow for food, and my pop-pop would call him a pesky cat before giving in. He’d groan as he got up out of his worn recliner, taking the hat off his head for a brief moment and smoothing his white hair underneath. Come on, he’d say as Rocky followed him down to the basement. I’d watch golf or Blue Bloods on the TV, waiting for him to come back.
Before walking up the basement steps, I shined my phone flashlight on Rocky’s food bowl. It was empty. Damp crunchies lined the bottom of his water bowl, also empty. I filled both as I left.