The Last Box

My Substack journey began in the fall when my father started turning over boxes of family letters and albums passed down through the generations. He’d been meaning to do that for a while, but I had only recently shown enough interest. At one point, he told me with a sadness that nearly half the family papers he’d collected when he was my age were gone, lost or stolen over the years.

Yesterday, I was at dad’s place to sift through the last box. The documents and letters are so fragile, I began sifting through them outside so as not to leave a thousand little paper chips on the floor.

‘You can take the whole box if you want to,’ he said.

But the sifting at his house had become a comfortable routine. Something about that process felt right. The crisp winter air on the patio kept company while separating out the last of items from pre and post dad's birth.

A journal or manuscript from 1958 emerged from the stack. The handwriting looked different. Dad had abandoned his nearly illegible cursive for writing in block letters years ago. This was written in detailed, proper cursive. Several in my family share the same name, so I brought it inside to ask him about the author.

He suddenly became protective—the same way he used to be about all these old things when I was a kid. His hands tightened slightly as he flipped through it, landing on a page where only one line stood visible, something about the type of man he wanted to become.

‘I don’t think I’m ready for you to take that one, son.’

It was the same page I saw before bringing it to him. In my mind, I kinda wish I had read more than that one line, but in my heart I’m glad I didn’t. My gut had guided me to the right place.

My wife, my four children, my three parents—even when I think I know them and understand, I never really do. Each one is like staring into the cosmos. Somewhere in time a newer lens emerges through which there’s infinitely more to see. This realization I have had many times, but then I forget.