She brushed her hand across my forehead and whispered, “Another bad dream baby?”

 I sat up and reached over to turn on the lamp, “No baby, not a dream. I haven’t fallen asleep yet.  I just got some things on my mind.” It was one of THOSE sleepless nights again; despite a long day at work and 2 hour workout at the gym.  I was thinking of him, my grandfather.  I rarely did ever speak of him, but he crossed my mind daily and I still missed him.  He had traveled far away past this cold world to a place my grandmother called the Blue Bayou; I bet it was beautiful there.  You know the Blue Bayou, I wanted him to be somewhere beautiful, peaceful, and relaxing after fighting and building so hard.

She smiled and said, “Baby, anything you would like to talk about or anything I can do to help you go asleep?” 

She was good at trying to get me to open up and release my feelings and thoughts.  I kissed her warm lips, smiled, reached over to turn the lamp off.  She laid her head across my chest and thoughts of him enjoying the Blue Bayou came quickly back into my mind. I laid there for what seemed like hours, until she fell asleep. I loved her being close, especially on these sleepless summer nights.  My mind slowly, slowly drifted far away from that very room, which led to me going down stairs.  I sat at my desk with a pen in my hand, until this story flowed out of me. Welcome to part one of my grandfather’s sickness.

I remember it well, the dark cloud that hovered over my youthful years. It was hard to ignore. I tried looking around it, but there it was staring me boldly in the face.  My grandfather’s sickness was more than a thing; but a time and place where the seasons shifted almost daily.  It was the March of 1999. While everyone was anticipating celebrating spring, I was stood facing and was stuck in the coldest winter ever.

He was a hard worker and family man.  Quiet spoken with a voice heavy enough to sit on your chest and slow your heartbeat and breathing. Oh and how he loved his family.  The very strength and motivation that kept him holding on in those last days.  He was there for it all; summer, winter, spring, and fall. Did I mention winter?  

He stood for the best and weathered the worst of those seasons.  In those days he taught me how to walk with my head high, while keeping my eyes low to watch for those things that would make your foot slide or stumble.  He told me about keeping the grass cut low to see the snakes from afar.  That no matter how low and careful you were that a few lying tongues would slither pass your defenses and bite and poison your love and dreams.  Even more importantly, he taught me how to be a man.

The task he faced helping raise me was not easy.  Rebellious and a hard-headed youngster as most would describe.  He stepped up to the plate swinging to help my mom while my father faded into a distant memory and out of my life.  With dedication and conviction, he molded me into the very man I am today.

I laugh as I polish my fingers over the scars of knowledge on my legs I gained while my grandfather pushed me proudly off into life as I pedaled franticly  on my bicycle trying not to come to a stumbling crash.  It was in moments like this where pain and frustration lead to success.  I loved him for that, both the knowledge and the scars of memory. I remember the look of joy in his eyes; not when I had finally mastered my balance without crashing, but they joy that burned in his eyes when I would get back up and brush myself off after each fall and get back on the bike for another round. I still remember the words that stopped me from crying after I had nearly broken my arm, “The greatest glory is in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

Accepting to fall, take pain, and get back up again, these are the qualities one of the greatest men who ever lived had.  My grandfather’s sickness had begun to consume his body and make it fragile and full of hurt, but not a spot of weakness could be found.

To be cont………………………………………………………………………………..

An excerpt from The University of Life  By: Bené “dapoet” Fleming