Loving and Leaving - A Tribute to Len Paulka

Some people are never forgotten, the meeting is brief, but the memory lasts.

Len Paulka, a II World War veteran was one such person, whom I had the privilege to know as a student in Australia, as he helped me with a roof over my head - his own home. He was 87 and was my friend and a recompense for a grandfather I never really knew. The following journal entry is from 2005.

17th April 2005 (10.50 p.m)

I saw him today. He could hardly move. I wondered if he even knew who I was. She said he did but I had my doubts. I sat and stared, occasionally with my eyes on the floor. It seemed more comforting...less painful-the floor. I was the strong one, not "emotional" like the others and so I constantly shifted my thoughts and my gaze to stop the tears.

I had learned to smile when it hurt the most, learned to exchange polite nothings even during heart-breaking situations, learned to control my emotions...I had "grown up" the way the world expected me to. Australia had taught me to survive.

She had to feed him. He drank tea through a straw. I wondered if he knew who was feeding him. I guess nothing mattered to him anymore...he was waiting for death. He refused to eat, to drink, to even care if any of it even mattered. The people who came to see him, who shed tears, asked questions, kissed and went away...I wondered if any of it mattered anymore. I'd never know, he had stopped talking.

A man in his last stages, a child in his initial stages, I saw no difference save for the size. I knew he was already dead to the world. I knew when I kissed him goodbye...he was already gone. In a few days I might only exist as a hazy figure...I don't know. Never will. He speaks no more. He is gone.

I got to know him just a few months before his death. ( To me, it seems that he is already dead to the world, though he and the others seem to wait and wonder about the "real" thing)

I was a stranger, an international student. He was Australian, German originally and treated me better than any grandparent of mine ever did. He was 87, I was 24. He gave me a roof over my head when I had no place to stay, he'd cook for me, we'd watch movies together and have dinner which he'd call "tea." He was Len Paulka, one of the most beautiful people I've known.

I don't cry! I'm strong! So the nights find me awake and the paper absorbs my tears...and I write for the one who was sent to show me the love of a grandparent. He was white and I was black, I was young and he was old...but when I see love...I know it and this, I knew WAS Love.

P.S: Len died to cancer a few hours after this was written. (3.39 a.m. 18th of April 2005 [My Birthday])