When I remember my him, I see the chair. He was forever resting in that worn, yellow recliner, a pipe hanging out of the right corner of his mouth. I am sitting on the faded red carpet, next to the throw rug that covers the spot where the carpet is worn through. My brother is sitting next to me, as we giggle at the faces he makes in his semi-conscious state. We note the grid markings on his upper arm from where the flab has been pressed against the woven twine-like material of the chair.

I catch his eye. I am always the first to know when he's awake. He winks at me, and then shifts his weight so that his foot hangs off the end of the recliner. I poke at my brother until he notices the bare foot. Now it's Tickle Time.

We hear a loud meow. It could be a cat if they happened to have a seventy-something year old cat with a Pennsylvania accent.

"Kids, go find that pussy," he says in the exact same voice that the `cat` just meowed in.

"That was you, Papa!" I laugh, as my brother searches under the couch.

We giggle as we walk outside to his powder blue, early seventies model ford with a plastic daisy on the antenna (he says he put that there to find the car in big parking lots) and head off for the Pittsburgh zoo.

We pass this rough spot on the road that makes the car wheels squeak.

"Uh oh," he turns to my brother, "Chasha's stomach is barking again."

I attempt to argue with him, but I am laughing too hard to be effective.

"Here comes the tunnel," he taunts, "you'd better pull your ears in so we don't get stuck."

Twenty years today. That seems too long a time to have such vivid memories of a person I got to see twice a year. I still remember his voice perfectly. I don't think voices fade into memory the way images do.

This entry is dedicated in loving memory of Morris Jack Martin, 3/21/09-8/16/84.

I love you, Papa, wherever you are.

-CRbE