The room was full of boxes. The boxes were all about the same size, seven feet long, a little over two feet wide, a little less than two feet tall. They came in many styles, some quite garish in their audacity. I stood in front of a simpler one, maple I think with a modest brown stain. It felt right. I looked briefly about at the others, glittering prisons for the soul and knew I was right. The man who specialized in finding the best Christmas presents at Big Lots wouldn’t approve of wasting too much on a fancy box that we were only using once. The man who owned the room asked if we wanted a sign on the box. I asked for one that said Dad.
He was never the best Father in the world. I don’t think he would argue with that. Father was too formal. Fathers were stern, they “knew best.” Father was a costume he wore sometimes when he thought he needed it. But the mask would always slip and Dad would be found smiling underneath, laughing at a joke only he heard. I was never fooled. I never called him father, he was always Dad.
While the man who owned the room of boxes prepared him for his final trek to his homeland of Price Hill, a reporter, one of his people, asked me what my father had taught me. I don’t remember what I said then, they didn’t use it on the news. But I know now what I should have said. My Dad taught me to play. To play with passion and joy, to love the game as much as the winning. He taugh me to laugh with others and at myself. He taught me how to make a baby smile every time. Not the most important lessons, not Father lessons. But the best Dad lessons one can teach.
We put his body the box and we put that box in the ground, not far from where his own father's bones rested. I remember the last time I saw that box, as autumn leaves swirled in a light breeze and the sun dipped behind the hills to the west. I laid my hand on the wood, for a long time, alone. I was the last person who knew him to touch that box. I said my goodbyes and joined the caravan of grief to return to lives that had to go on.
Lou
Lou
I remember that day. I watched from the distance, extension of your family, but spared the depths of your grief. I remember feeling so sad, mostly for you guys.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written. I remember that day too, because Chris came over to my house on North Bend Road shortly after we got the news, and Chris hugged all of us Dunns who were gathered there. It wasn't like Chris to hug people, but he made an exception that day as he tearfully told us what had happened.
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