What I recall most about my grandparent’s house in North Buffalo is the smoky haze that seemed a permanent fixture of the surroundings, hovering around the furniture and carpet, floating amongst the pictures, even after my grandfather passed away, for it was him who smoked. My grandfather smoked incessantly. He smoked a brand of cigarettes called ‘Kings;’ a brand I’ve never seen since, even after taking up the habit myself, thus making me feel justified in the pleasure I feel from imagining they were made only for him.

My grandfather, or “Papa” as me and my siblings called him, would sit in his large dark leather chair in the far left corner of the room bathed in clouds of smoke. Next to him were the glass doors that led out to the second story porch. From where he sat, sunlight would shine through the doors to highlight and pierce the smoke in front of him, while the rest of him was just able to remain hidden from the path of the sun’s light. I can still recall approaching him for a dollar bill every time we left, a ritual that always made him smile as he would adjust his seat in order to pull his wallet from his back pocket.

My grandfather always seemed to wear the same clothes; I distinctly remember his plaid shirts that made him look like a scarecrow, a retired scarecrow of some sort; one still content to never use his legs. In fact, I only remember seeing him walk on his feet and away from his chair once: I was in the kitchen with my grandma when I heard someone come up the stairs. I went out the door and saw my grandpa walking up the stairs. I was surprised to see him walk, that he even could walk, that there actually was somewhere else he needed to be, just as he seemed to be surprised, and perhaps a bit disappointed, that I had seen him away from his chair. I remember that he looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Hey, How are you doing?”

The house was on the second floor. The first floor remained a mystery to me, like it didn’t even exist, similar to a home on the beach with stilts; you know there is something down below, but it doesn’t always feel real. The first floor was rented out to strangers, people I never came into contact with, though I remember seeing these people leave from the ground floor; I remember thinking how odd it was that a house was divided in two like such a way.

I remember the other rooms of the house: there was a dining room with a large table that was never used for dining. Instead my grandma kept her plants all over it. On the other side of the dining room was a very long cabinet table that was covered in framed photographs. The kitchen was the room one first entered from the stairs that led up from the ground floor, the sides of which seemed in conflict with each other. There was a window between the two sides that looked down on a driveway that was always empty since neither of my grandparents drove. Against the window was a table, and on the table was a big wooden birdcage with two small birds that my grandma kept.

From the kitchen one could walk down a corridor where there was a bathroom on the left. Ahead was my grandma’s room where she slept alone. I remember being confused over why her and my Papa didn’t sleep in the same room like my parents, indeed like all other adults I knew. Exiting my grandma’s room one could take a left and walk until one came to a room on one’s right and a room on one’s left; The room on the left was where me and my brother would play. There was a closet in this room where we would hide. If we were mischievous, my grandma would tell us that the closet led to hell, but we hid and played in it anyway. The room on the right from the corridor was my grandfather’s bedroom, which could be entered from two ends. The bedroom had no window that I can remember, and was extremely dark. It was a room that desperately cried out for light, but somehow found a way to be content without it. I remember doubting that my Papa even slept there; I don’t think he ever did.