Everything Looks Better From On Top of a Lap

James Parker

Today marks the twelfth anniversary of my grampa’s death. I’d love to use my blog post this month as an opportunity to showcase the kind of man he was and how he always made me feel safe and loved.

Sleepily, I open my eyes, confused by not being in my own bed. The lacy comforter is familiar, but not mine. Light streams in from the window to my right, a far cry from the normal darkness I keep in my room at home. I tuck my hand behind my head on the pillow, bumping it on the giant headboard I don’t normally encounter upon waking up.

Stretching, I hear the faint buzz of someone cutting their lawn, and something delicious-smelling wafts into the room, waking me far more effectively than the light.

There is a tap against the door.

“Juli, are you awake?”

“Yes, Gramma,” I call back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time,” she says.

I complete my morning routine with the awkwardness of being outside my home, but with the familiarity of a place well-known. I have spent many mornings like this, always viewed as a pleasure and a privilege.

After dressing, I make my way to the front room where sun is shining in from the big window seat to my left. On the right is the kitchen, and Gramma is humming while she serves up porridge into bowls, heaping brown sugar on top of mine and mine alone. A grapefruit with its queer, special serrated spoon sits beside Grampa’s.

Grampa himself is already seated on the couch facing the fireplace and the picture of the rustic cabin above a waterfall in the woods that I hope will one day reside in my own house. He grins, looking up at me.

“Just who I was looking for,” he says.

“Why’s that?” I ask, sitting beside him, and observing the TV tray set up in front of him, spread with his blood kit.

“I need a good finger,” he teases. He reaches for my hand and I play along as he pretends to prick my finger with the small, white instrument and use the results for his test. “Perfect!”

I laugh, watching him complete his test, carefully dropping his own blood onto the test strip and inserting it into the machine. It whirs, completing its task, while he cleans up the blood. As it blinks the result, he meticulously writes it down in his little spiral notebook, replete with entries as the test is repeated multiple times a day. He calls the number back to Gramma in the kitchen. I don’t understand which numbers are good and which are bad, but she seems happy with the result.

I jump up and help her carry in the breakfast dishes, setting them down on the individual trays.

“Shall we pray?” Grampa asks, holding out one hand to me and the other to Gramma.

We take his hands and, together, our voices ring out with the Lord’s Prayer. They say it every morning and there is something about hearing them, saying it in the old-fashioned ‘thee and thou’ manner that makes me feel holy and known.

After we finish praying, Grampa’s calm, steady voice speaks alone, asking God to bless the food. I open my eyes and begin stirring the brown sugar into my oatmeal, blowing on it before I can stand the temperature in my mouth.

“Now where did my bowl go?” Grampa asks, his spoon wandering over to my tray. “Oh, here it is.”

“That’s not yours,” I tell him, laughing.

It’s not really a meal until Grampa tries to steal the food he can’t eat off someone else’s plate. I don’t really understand diabetes and why he has to test his blood sugar and all the restrictions of his diet, but I do know that he turns it into a game and a way to relate to those around him.

He carefully eats his grapefruit instead of my sugary cereal and the three of us talk and laugh and eat together.

After breakfast, Grampa reads to us from the Bible, today’s chapter coinciding with the verse the three of us recited last night before going to bed.

Isaiah 26:3-4: Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee. Trust ye in the Lord forever: for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength.1

“Your mom will be here to get you in a few hours,” Gramma tells me. “What do you want to do until then?”

I think, contemplating my options.

“I know a girl who looks like she wants to play Racko,” Grampa tempts, his eyes gleaming.

“You’re on,” I tell him, helping to clear the dishes.

I grab the game from the cupboard in the dining room and set it up on the table. Grampa slowly makes his way from the other room and I use the opportunity to grab some candy from the candy cupboard Gramma always has well stocked in anticipation of her grandchildren coming over.

Gramma busies herself in the kitchen with the dishes while Grampa and I play. The game is simple enough, but provides entertainment, and I laugh as Grampa tries to switch our cards.

In the end, he wins, but it’s a close game. I put away the game while Grampa makes his way over to his recliner, sitting in front of the TV.

Moving to join him, I survey my options. Gramma has her own chair sitting next to his, an end table between them. At the desk in the corner sits a hard-backed desk chair. A blue couch graces the wall on the opposite side. But the best seat in the house is the one already taken. That doesn’t stop me. I move over to Grampa’s chair and sit on his lap, tucking my head under his chin, watching in silence as he opens his crossword puzzle. He holds me comfortably, brushing his scruffy chin against the top of my head while I laugh in protest.

I close my eyes, content and safe. This house is a haven of warmth and love, but it’s always augmented from my current vantage point. Sitting in Grampa’s lap means that everything is okay. None of my worries or cares are able to reach me here. Soon the bustle of life will re-interfere with my family’s arrival and return me to the normal routine, but for the moment, I don’t pay any attention to the future. Because everything looks better from on top of his lap.

1Scripture found in the King James Version.

The title is a paraphrase of a line from the musical Starship by Team Starkid.