"I know I may have never said it, but you're like a father to me. I remember wanting to call you that. Call you poppa." The young man glanced over to the man he looked up to. "And I know that may be hard to believe, but it's true."
He sat silently for a while, gathering his thoughts. "See, I may have had three of you, but you all impacted me in some way. Wanna know what touched me the most?"
The man stared at the boy."What?"
"The first piano lesson," he smiled.
"The first of many," the older gentlemen replied with smile. "It took you forever to get the basics down."
"It did," the boy chuckled with him. "But what made it so special is that I learned why my mother loved you." He paused as the man waited silently. "Your patience. Your kindness. And the ability to be vulnerable with her," he disclosed. "Your vulnerability, allowed her to open up as well."
"I still remember all the times we were at Paisley when wife was around. I'd be out playing with her, and you two were off on the side talking. And for such a long time, I knew that's what she wanted. Just to talk. You gave her that. As time progressed and your wife disappeared...my stepdad was gone in the wind, I knew what was coming. I couldn't have been happier."
"Even when things hit the fan, you stayed by my mum's side. You even tended to me to see if I was okay. The nights out to the go kart track or playing video games. You were there when you didn't have to be. That meant so much to me."
Clutching an envelope in his hands. "It would also mean the world to me if you came to the memorial service this weekend. I know you and my mother didn't turn out the way you planned, but I do know that she loved you as much as you loved her. That's why she choose you to create Amira with. At least I'd like to think that," the boy chuckled through tears.
The man took hold of the envelope. Opening it up he saw the one thing he never thought he'd see. "You know, all I think about his how Amira will never have what you had. That she'll never know her mother. And that the little memories she does have will fade away."
"They won't," the boy countered. "You have your own memories, stories, pictures—
"I have one photo with her," he bat away tears. "One. Plenty of her alone that I'd taken, but one of us together."
"That's not true," the boy dug into his backpack, retrieving an Walgreens photo bag. "I found an old camera mum had. There was still a roll of film inside. I got them developed and—" he handed over the slip.
The gentleman quickly opened the photo slip and nearly began to cry.
"I'm sure there's more somewhere," the boy muttered.
The photos were of Amira's first birthday party. His once wife held Amira on her hip. While he carried the, then 11 year old, boy on his back.
"It's our little family," he muttered. "It's all I ever wanted. A wife and kids. She gave me that. She gave me love... A daughter... A son." He peered up at the boy. "I always saw you as my own, Gabriel. No matter what had happened. Always have, always will." Wiping away the single tear that managed to fall, he pulled himself together. "I'll be there Sunday."
"Thank you, Poppa P."
