Love in a Green Pebbled Box

This post on JD's blog, coupled with my recent acquaintance with a person who collects, appraises and sells, among other things, the belongings of dead people, has made me think. Specifically, I have been thinking about the things I found when going through my Dad's house after his death. My Dad was what is commonly known as a pack rat. I fight these tendencies in myself, because I prefer a house that has clean lines and is uncluttered. But genetics are a powerful thing, and I am not succeeding in my efforts to pare down.

There are upsides to a collecting gene, however. For instance, when my father died unexpectedly, I was wracked with worry that he did not know how much he meant to me. I thought about all the times I unloaded my teenage angst (even extending into adulthood) on or near him, how self-absorbed I was during the last weekend I saw him alive and all sorts of other memories, all of which basically added up to me being a bad daughter and failing to tell him what a great Dad he was. But luckily for me, he saved all manner of things that reminded me of times when I showed and/or told him how important he was to me. I found homemade cards and gifts I gave him as a child, including even this free pass to a piano concert:



In his house there were also many cards I sent him as an adult, expressing the feelings I could not articulate, and postcards from afar in which I shared with him places he would never see. As I read through these, I began to find comfort, realizing that I was being too hard on myself and that in fact, I had regularly told him how important he was to me. In short, Dad's decision to save all of those little items from over the years helped me rebuild my memory so that it was more realistic and afforded me the peace of knowing that he knew he was loved, and for that I am very grateful.

Also, although I never for one moment doubted his love for me, the things he kept made it very plain to me. He kept things like this note in which I let him know where I would be:



and this old "Christmas wish list", which he marked with the year so as to remember it:



and his boutonniere from the only father-daughter dance to which I invited him in high school:



and these notes from when I called him at work to tell him about my new car, the first one I bought for myself:



and this picture of me as a stern-looking little girl:



I now have an old-looking green box in which I store all of these items and the others I found that day. I used to keep them in the wooden tool box of his that I have, but for some reason decided they were safer in the green box. When I feel the memories of my Dad beginning to fade, I lift the lid from the box and flip through some of these mementos, savoring the distinctive look of his handwriting and the memories of things like our every-Sunday talks and the way he would cry each time I left to return to Texas after a visit with him. Sometimes, when I dare to dream of a love and a family of my own, I wonder if I will be able to impart to my own children even a fraction of the bottomless love that my Dad bestowed on me.