three plastic boxes

My dad died in September 2017 and there's much I'll never comprehend about who he was and what he valued. There's a rightness to that maybe. We each take our mysteries, regrets and the million unseen moments of a human life with us when we go but I feel sad about it. So many questions I'll never get to ask him. So many stories I'll never hear. And the photographs... he was quite the amateur photographer and the old resumes of his I found in my mum's boxes of the past are littered with references to his keen AV skills... so many photographs of people I'll never meet or know what threads of connection tied their lives to his. Or how he felt about those people and those places.

After dad died, I cleared up his mementos and put them in three plastic boxes. My mum didn't want to touch them. She just wanted it all gone. Since then, the boxes have been stored under a house in Springbrook, sealed and duct taped awaiting the right time for me to go through them. To crack them open, handle each thing piece by piece and make a decision about what to do with it all.

So a 7 hour return trip to collect them, wipe off the dirt and cobwebs and bring them back to our house in Bellthorpe. Done. And here they sit. Looking at me. Part of me wants to just chuck them out unopened. The larger part wants to connect with him again, get to know him on a deeper level as I look at the things that were important enough for him to keep and carry. He traveled the world, emigrated twice, lived in three countries and many cities and had several careers during his 87 years so the stuff inside the boxes, is (from memory) eclectic.

Every day I look at the boxes and wonder if today will be the day. It hasn't come yet.






The boxes in Bellthorpe






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