Amber Patterson

GPC Student

Popsicle Sundays

As a young girl growing up, dealing with life changes, and withstanding my parents' brutal divorce, there was a place I would go, and always feel truly loved. Hidden by huge swooping oak trees and a long gravel driveway was a house that I visited every Sunday, and I knew as soon as I arrived that I would have a special treat waiting for me. This place, where I felt such enjoyment, belonged to my Paw-Paw.

Every Sunday, Paw-Paw and I would eat orange cream-filled popsicles, and he always had a way of making something so small very special. I knew no matter what my parents were doing, they would take me to my Paw-Paw’s on Sunday afternoon. I would walk through his heavy oak door, like a queen coming into her palace, and there he was, always laid out on his old orange and brown plaid sofa, acting shocked to see me. After we exchanged huge bear hugs, he would convincingly say that the grocery stores had stopped selling cream-filled orange popsicles, yet amazingly enough, he just happened to have the very last one for me in his ice chest. We would run hand in hand to his chest, and when he handed me that cold delicious treat, I would curl my tiny fingers around the popsicle stick, and hold it like I had just been handed a prize golden egg. Next, as the coldness of it cooled off my fingers, I would carefully open one end of the white wrapper, and watch the cold smoke puff out of the opening. Finally, as I pulled the bright orange popsicle out of its wrapper, I would look at my Paw-Paw, and I don’t know exactly whose eyes were bigger with excitement, his or mine.

I always felt an explosion of joy when Paw-Paw would take me and my dripping popsicle outside to his old front porch swing. While we slowly swung, I would tell silly stories, yet despite how stupid they were he always listened so intently, hanging onto every last word, as if it would be my last. As he listened, his eyes sparkled, and he used to tell me that only his favorite granddaughter, with her careless smile, could make him so happy, and when he said this I felt like the most special girl in the world. As we laughed and played, I knew that soon I would be going home, but I was excited when I would pretend that my parents had forgotten me, and I got to stay with my Paw-Paw forever and be treated like a princess.

Now as an adult, everyday is a hustle and bustle, there are no longer popsicle Sundays, but in the midst of all the havoc, a simple remembrance of Paw-Paw and our special afternoons calms the storm. When I am having a horrible day, or just feeling down in the dumps, I go to the closest store, and buy myself orange cream-filled popsicles, and then I go sit on my front porch swing, and think about all the wonderful Sundays my Paw-Paw spent with me.

My Paw-Paw died about ten years ago, but the memories of him and me eating popsicles and talking will always vividly live inside of me. Even on my worst days, the thoughts of our special Sundays light up my world.