Lunch with Papa

I spent a week with Uncle Bob in Key West my twentieth summer. We were lunching at Sloppy Joe's when I spotted Papa Hemingway surrounded by a crowd. I recognized his face from the dust jackets of my father's library. Bob read the admiration in my eyes. "Shall I introduce you, my dear?"

Fifty years have passed, I keep trying to find the words to explain the shock of meeting the master. His eyes locked on mine, and I found I had to remind myself to breathe. The force of his presence obliterated all the other people in the room. I felt myself swept up in the vortex that swirled around the man who had defined manhood for my parent's generation. He raised an eyebrow; he knew his effect on my respiration. As my heart hammered and my tongue stumbled over praise for his work, he smiled and invited me to sit at his table.

I grew up that afternoon. A couple of daiquiris steadied my heart and lungs. I felt accepted into adult society. I enchanted everyone with my gossip. I felt I shone like the North star. I was certain Papa had looked all his life for the woman who could appreciate his genius. All I had learned in my short life must have prepared me for this day.

When I woke and peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I was shocked by the old man at my side. The late afternoon sun cast deep shadows on the crags of his face. He rolled over, snorted, farted, but did not awaken. Maybe any man would have disgusted me; perhaps my regrets were all gastric. But I sometimes believe I have spent the rest of my life looking for what I lost that day.