Breakfast for dinner

I remember, pops volume: part 1

I remember memoirs and memories of an adoring daughter and a proud father.

I remember the artifacts and accounts that contain our history.

I remember when the sound of little and big-hearted feet was the music we danced to week to week. 

I remember when Mom shared how I brought joy to your birthday that blessed Christmas Eve day in 1979.

I remember the story of a birth that claimed my name and rooted me further into ancestry.

I remember the tale: tears twinkling in your bold brown eyes, and you asked if I could be named after your mother, who passed a lifetime before.

I remember singing praises side by side, our smiles growing with the glow.

I remember studying you as you stood in front of the mirror in the morning, preparing for work at our home on Benham Ct.

I remember clouds of cream foaming on your fingertips as you smoothed the salve on your cheeks and chin.

I remember the snap of the blades on the side of the bathroom sink.

I remember the Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion you would pump into your palms to polish the cracks of your elbows.

I remember the coins in the big armoire saved for your slim slack pocket.

I remember the silky patterned ties painted in pigment and polka dots.

I remember they hung on hooks in the closet like a writhing mass of snakes.

I remember they neatly knotted and slipped under your bright sweater vests, and crisp collar folded fine.

I remember your slip-on loafers with tassels and pennies and the wooden shoehorns to keep the form of your foot.

I remember you always looked like a sharp-dressed man.

I remember your scent hanging in the hall and hugging my hair after you kissed me goodbye, a fragrant blend of soap and Brut aftershave.

I remember bushy eyebrows the color of coal, shady sideburns, and a splash of stubble grey in disguise generously portraying your easy smile.

I remember you were always on time, never without a watch.

I remember the ribbon of gold that draped your neck and added flash to your frame.

I remember your pickup truck, the color of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street.

I remember the places you went in your jet-black Toyota 4Runner charging and conducting interviews with intention and integrity. 

I remember not wanting to go to bed and your charitable fairytales lit with love soothing the darkness of my fears.

I remember sneaking between you and Mom and hiding under the covers attempting to find comfort and ease that did not exist within as I pushed myself back to sleep.

I remember my little nails scratching your broad back for 25 cents a minute.

I remember I earned a dollar a top to iron and starch your button-down dress shirts.

I remember the aerosol stench of starch eradicating every wrinkle and sterile smell. 

I remember how you loved to make breakfast for dinner.

I remember the aroma of scrambled eggs, sizzled sausage, and fried French toast as songs of sugar filled the kitchen.

I remember each satisfying bite of browned potato discs coated in Log Cabin maple syrup, saturating my small soul.

I remember your famed and fortuned tuna salad sandwiches assembled with simple sweet relish, Best Foods Mayonnaise, and convincing red onion packed between plain slices of spongy white bread.

I remember the savory suggestion of summer and BBQ chicken soaked in stainless steel and dressed in the big, bold taste of Bull’s-Eye brown sugar and hickory sauce.

I remember the smell of ash and puffy coat stowed in the garage with burnt cigarette butts buried in the pockets.

I remember the sound of the mower and the manicured way you cared for the lawn and shaped and cropped our yard.

I remember the story of you putting together my legendary 1989 Mattel Barbie '57 Chevy Car with the turquoise cover and cotton candy pink core. 

I remember you drove a hip black '57 Chevy Car of your own.

I remember falling asleep safely at your side, dreaming under the gentle checkered blanket of deep burgundy and forest green, the color of Christmas.

I remember the year you taught me to ride my Schwinn Fair Lady Bike trimmed in holiday rose and topped with a floral woven basket – a young girl's delight and dream.

I remember when we removed the training wheels, and you secretly let go of the banana seat from behind, setting me free to sail the street without apprehension. 

I remember your strong, wide shoulders, always simple to spot and solid as truth.

I remember your big arms and hands safeguarding and swallowing your sweetheart.

I remember your dim masculine den and shadowy form hunched over your desk. 

I remember the antique brass and green glass lamp and the quiet glow of the light over the corner.

I remember paperwork packed in stacks on the couch. 

I remember the itchy way the couch made me feel. 

I remember the display case and the shotguns for hunting behind the glass.

I remember the case banned my curiosity.

I remember the décor that decorated and draped the borders with Monarch Foods paraphernalia, duck and geese prints, and sparkly best salesman awards.

I remember your prominent presence and luxury abilities in each restaurant we dined.

I remember you were a legend in your territory.

I remember the tattered box of Bank of America pens in your drawer, your signature seal never to run out of promise.

I remember the yellow legal pads and the texture of black velvet splattered, taking up space on the page. 

I remember the sound of liquid ink drawing out the words documenting something essential to remember and never to forget.

I remember you wrote your characters in capital letters.

I remember all the heartfelt letters and sincere cards, gifting me what could not be spoken but said through the script and savoring them like a fine delicacy.

I remember when I was young, and so were you, and time stood still, and love was all we knew.

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Elias Ellis James Varellas, December 24, 1944 - June 23, 2022

Hard to believe it has been a year, Dad. I miss your voice and how your eyes lit up when I walked into a room. I miss your hands and how they held mine. I miss your hugs and how they soothed my tears. I miss it all and could not love you more. 

Ilias Greek: Ηλίας is the Greek version of the name of the Prophet Elijah. It is also commonly spelled Elias.

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Prompt

I remember…

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Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page. See what words flow.

Comment if you try. I would love to hear about your journey and experience with intuitive flow writing!

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IN CASE YOU MISSED THESE POSTS

The day I gave you back

Dusted golden embers

Moments of the mundane

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