Issue 10.2 Spring 2015

10.2 cover image

 

Katie Sall is a freshman English Education major at Illinois State University. Writing, which has been a hobby for most of her life, has slowly evolved into the most passionate form of expression for her. She hopes to continue practicing and improving upon her skills while studying the art of English throughout her college experience. This piece is written about and dedicated to her beloved Opa, Andrew Eberle.

 

Opa

 

Kaite Sall

 


We went to church. Every weekend my Oma insisted, dragged, and forced my sister and I to go to church. Around age six or seven it was impossible to deny my 70-year-old religiously dependent Oma. Anna loved it with the innocence of a child, not knowing the true meaning behind her vivacious singing as the chorus harmonized alongside a sharply pitched organ.

 

We went to the beach. Marco Island, Florida. A long strip of blinding white sand that seemed to be smaller than it actually was. The salty air soothed my mind despite the strong sun scorching my pale body. Sunscreen was my best friend. Oma would wake us up precisely at 5 o’clock in the morning, feed us her ever so redundant and fluffy scrambled eggs, and we would trek along the beach for miles and miles searching for the most unique and whole shells. Anna thought that sand dollars were actually used as currency and I always found myself having to explain to her that if she wanted to buy ice cream she needed real money. Then, she would break the delicate “dollars” out of her frustration and Oma would give us a long talk about “not destroying nature’s treasures.” Once we arrived back to the condo we would transform the kitchen table into a masterpiece covering every square inch with our oceanic treasures. Then, we would stare at them in silence, and one by one take our turns picking our favorites. Searching for the shells didn’t excite me, I became accustomed to watching the pelicans dive into the water, but I almost always picked the sand dollars in case one day the economy accepted them into their system.

 

German, it was a German church - six feet under it was German, the massive wooden entrance was German, and the top of the steeple was too, all too German. Although no black, red, and gold flag hung, every tombstone in the graveyard contained successive generations of German family names. Singing wasn’t my forte, I could only count to 10 in the language of choice, and the blood of Christ never actually entered my body. I lied. I faked it. Oma yelled at me and I couldn’t fake eating his body after that. I convinced myself I was a cannibal and Oma always looked at me as I stuck my tongue out to prove to her that I had swallowed his god-forsaken “body.” Stained glass windows glared at me from all angles and their meshed colors seemed beautiful, until I realized that they were only trying to convince me to stay, and stare, and pray, and care. I wanted to leave.

 

He never came to the beach, my Opa. Soccer was on TV and he fell so far into his lengthy lounge chair that he was practically a part of it. European soccer, American soccer, and Latin soccer were much more important than wasting energy to get to a place where all you want to do is avoid the things it has to offer – sun and sand.  It baffled me. The way he would watch us walk down every single morning, waving until we became as tiny as ants from the balcony, but never joining along. He never came to church either. Singing and mumbling prayers, trying to act as if he knew them, would have been a waste of his precious time. In retrospect, I was much too ignorant to realize how precious it really was.

 

We went to church. I read a piece from the bible because Oma had asked. Remembering the moment isn’t difficult at all because it was the first time in my life that I felt absolutely and precisely nothing at all. Nothing. Cold like a stone, the warmth in my skin had vanished and I spoke words that I didn’t even remotely know. Hands still, shoulders relaxed, and feet glued in place I read the verse. Making eye contact to the audience, my steady stare spotted the stained glass. How rude of them, to mock us in all of their colorful glory as we mourn and sigh in hues of darkness. How obnoxious of them to show images of people so lively when here was a man, deceased and boxed up. They were inconsiderate – unmannerly and errant. I lifted my chin and scowled at their willingness to take my Opa for themselves with but a warning.
           

He went to church. The day he died, he went. His chair could no longer contain him and the windows probably invited him inside. He’s added to the list of tombstones, all German and gray, withering slowly with a soccer ball is at his feet. As I threw my rose atop his casket I shook my head. He should’ve been buried in his chair. The stained glass has never haunted me again and the wooden doors have never welcomed me since that day. I refuse on his behalf and fear the moment I have to return when her tombstone matches his and her final date is engraved. I despised the fact that he was succumbed to this religious ground that we all knew he wouldn’t want to be apart of, until I realized, that’s where my Oma would always be.  She goes everyday. Every God damned day.

 

 

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