It must have been around 1990 when I first noticed the fog settling over my memory. The initial sign was subtle yet unsettling—I couldn’t recall the name of my cat. This orange-furred cat with tabby stripes and green eyes had been my companion for three years. One evening, after returning from work, I stood there, wanting to call out to it, but the name eluded me, no matter how hard I tried. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how profoundly the inability to remember could evoke sadness. I’d never been someone who remembered every detail of the past, but this felt different, like a small yet significant part of me had slipped away.

Like the memory of my grandfather that lingers in my mind, whenever I attempt to revisit it, it feels like trying to catch smoke in my hands. Details slip through my fingers, like the colour of his shirt or the lines of his face. Strange, right?

Not that it mattered to anyone I told, but it did for me, in a certain way, because the face I wished I could remember was none other than my grandfather's—Pa Joe.

I didn't grow up with my grandfather; in fact, Pa Joe passed away when I was nine. So there wasn't much I could remember of him, even if I wanted to. My mom took me and my elder brother Austin to visit him quite often.

One day, I accidentally broke my grandfather’s radio, the one he kept by the windowsill beside a blurred lion mural. In a bid to hide the parts that lay on the floor, I inadvertently stepped on the disassembled antenna, breaking it further. Pa Joe had repeatedly warned me to stop playing near his cherished radio. But at that age, I did everything but listen. The sound of the fall woke Pa Joe, or perhaps not. All I felt was an omnipresent eye watching me. I wouldn't have believed in such a feeling before then. But somehow, Pa Joe had pulled his whip close to him.

He waited patiently for me to finish tucking the broken parts of the radio under his bed before he unleashed a lash on my unsuspecting buttocks. In the frantic moment when I stood up to face him, I was met with his weathered visage. His eyes bore into mine with disappointment and frustration as he grabbed me by the hand. Slowly, he hammered me with the whip, his movements deliberate and controlled, until I managed to wriggle free.

Now, I’m convinced he let me go, not wanting to bruise me too badly. But was that the only time I faced his wrath? I still don't know the answer. I asked my mother about it, but she said she was too busy to have noticed. My brother, the jealous one even at age 45, said, "Grandpa never flogged me the way he flogged you."

I remember how that day ended. After I outwitted and escaped from Pa Joe's grasp, he instructed Austin to bring me back to him. Austin, whose arrival almost collided with my escape, chased me with such pace that my heart was in my mouth. By the time I fell, he had caught up with me and picked me up like a box laden with stories—a feat he could accomplish because he was five years older.

He returned me to Pa Joe, who stood at the door with his whip. Love is an action. It's why Pa Joe whipped Austin instead of me when he brought me forth.

In his defence, he said, "So if they wanted to kill your brother, you would gladly give him up, right?"

Another strike came down on Austin despite his attempt to run away, causing him to drop me. I had never seen Pa Joe so angry before, nor did I realize he could run after a kid at such an old age. Perhaps he did it to prove a point to my brother.

Above all, my brain chose to interpret it as a symbol of love.

This particular memory of him is what I have left that qualifies as vivid. The rest are like the school bags my mother bought for me in prep classes—precious to me, yet I can't remember as little as the colour of the bags.

Regardless of this cherished memory of Pa Joe, I'm left to accept that no matter how vivid memories may be, they can't conquer time. I'm turning 40 this year (2005), and I can only hope to hold onto this memory a little longer although I can barely remember my own name now.