The Box

My father was nothing if not predictable. He got up at four am every weekday to start getting ready for work at the office. The night before he had laid out his clothes, packed a brown bag lunch, and set up the coffee maker. He would shower for ten minutes, no more, no less. He brushed his teeth from left to right on the top and right to left on the bottom in perfect one-inch circles. He shaved using a quarter-sized dollop of shaving cream and always went with the grain of his beard. His routine was as fine-tuned as a Swiss watch. Every second of his life seemed planned and prepared for, no surprises. Of course, I grew up watching this routine, the same show on repeat, day after day, month after month, year after year. It was no surprise that I grew up to be an absolute control freak, just like dear ol dad.  

He never planned for the heart attack. It was quick and quiet. The policeman said the crash only involved his car, thank goodness. The coroner’s report said massive myocardial infarction, MI, in the lingo of the docs. He had planned for the funeral. Picking the casket, funeral home, flowers, church, hymns to sing, readings to read from the good book, everything down to the minutest detail.

After the funeral, Mom and I had a small reception at the house. Close friends, neighbors, work colleagues, and relatives were served finger foods and beverages. Stories were told, memories remembered, life reflected on, grief shared in a communal way. Little bits of laughter lightened the doldrums felt by all. A balance of sorrow so as not to overwhelm anyone more than another. My father would have been overjoyed at the symmetry of it all. 

Weeks later, my mother asked me to come over to go through his closet. She wanted to donate his suits and other work attire to the Salvation Army. “Doesn't do anyone no good sitting in that closet collecting dust,” she said. She wasn’t wrong. He was bigger than me. His clothes wouldn’t fit. I was just surprised by how quickly she wanted to move on, to the next chapter of her life, the widow. I climbed the stairs, one at a time, I was in no rush for my next chapter. The orphan. I know I still have her. My dad was my person, though. He got me. Understood when she didn’t, couldn’t.  

Opening their bedroom door, I was struck with how little it had changed over the years. The same bedroom set consisting of a bed, dresser, and two nightstands made from maple that they had purchased fifty years ago. The same pictures on the walls: a family portrait from Sears, my high school and college graduations, my baby picture complete with blue footprints to the side, their wedding day. Only the paint colors on the walls had changed from one shade of tan to another, desert sand, toffee crunch, toasted caramel. 

On top of his dresser, the same six items adorned it. His gold pocket watch passed down from his grandfather, which was mine now, I guess. His plastic black comb for the unruly mop of black hair atop his head, a tool for the job, nothing extravagant nor flashy. His wallet littered with receipts and stuffed to the gills with pictures of me throughout the years. His cologne, a musky scent that lingered in the air well after use. I remember fondly how it would cling to me after he hugged me in those back-breaking bear hugs he always gave. A photo of his parents in a silver frame. The two nicest people you ever met, he would say, he wasn’t wrong. He missed them dearly, so did I. My first book, published by a small indie press, with a foreword simple and sweet: To my two biggest fans, thanks Mom and Dad for all your encouragement and support.

On his side of the closet were his work shirts, ties, suit coats, pants, and shoes. Opening the first of the cardboard boxes, I started with his shoes. The everyday brown wingtips with the scuff marks on the soles, the leather buffed to a high shine. The more formal black ones, made from Italian leather used for weddings, funerals, wakes, and christenings. The classic penny loafer, a pair I bought for him one Father’s Day long ago. I gently packed them away, slowly like a member of an elite bomb squad. His shirts were next, freshly starched and pressed shades of gray, black, brown, and white, pastels weren’t his thing. His four suits, forty-four long, correction only three now. We buried him in the pin-striped number he wore for special occasions. The ties crowned the top of the box, striped and solid, neatly folded. I was happy to help my mom with this task, a burden she couldn’t bear. Saying goodbye to the only man she ever loved. The clothes were a constant reminder of what she had lost, we had lost. I did pilfer his favorite tie, though. It was a silver and red one made of silk; I needed a keepsake. A memento. A touchstone. 

Finishing up one of my last duties to my father, I packed and labeled the boxes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a plain brown shoebox as I was starting to close the closet door. Reaching up to the top shelf, I brought it out into the light. I figured maybe I had missed a pair of shoes. It was too light though. Curiosity got the better of me and I opened the lid. Inside was a Polaroid with cursive in my father’s handwriting, Josh, age 4, 1977, a pair of white leather baby shoes tarnished by age, a lock of strawberry blond hair. My name is Edward. I was named after my father, I’m a junior. I was born in nineteen seventy-one. I have black hair, just like my father. My dad had a secret. I have a brother. So much for predictability.