Breath of the Briefcase

It came from my dad’s old briefcase.

Not much to say about the thing. It was an old, sleek, black leather-bound briefcase. One of the few things he left me after his death. Along with a bucket of questions. Such as:

“Is that briefcase breathing?”

Breathing, as if it is alive. Fear jumps from my legs, up my spine, to the base of my head. It’s just like him to leave me with a literal object of fear. It’s been 2 weeks since he passed, I’ve been ready to look through his belongings. I often wondered if he liked messing with me. There’s only so much one person can contain before breaking. I creeped towards the breathing briefcase.

The noise it makes is synonymous to a bulls’ breath. He used to take me those carnival shows when I was much younger. I can still hear the creeks of the nuts and bolts from the Farris Wheel. The grease droppings from funnel cake machines. How the clowns would take their smoke break behind the ticket booth stand. Yeah, this wasn’t a carnival that I would fondly look back on. They just happen to be one of the few memories we’d have together. Again, of the few things he left me, along with the question:

"why is this briefcase breathing?” It rests neatly on his office chair. Where he would spend most of his time while I was attending private school. 3P.M. couldn’t come quick enough. Gaining friends was a harder task than getting good grades. I was often distracted in my own fantasy world. Sometimes it would be of space battles, dungeons, or dragons. It would all eventually go back to him. Just the thought of his presence being at home would light my day. Though while I was home, that chair would be as empty as it now.

But instead of light breathing, there would be a strong silence over the house. A silence that I’ve gotten used to. It had shaped me from a frightened boy to a fearful man. Reserved, with lost eyes that trace a room filled of dust and dead bonds. I kneel pass the arms of the chair. Faced directly towards the black handled box. I ask myself:

“How many days did I spend in here waiting for you to come home? And why is that briefcase breathing?” 

A question I keep returning to. My memories serve me right, this case would only house papers and manilla folders. Some would be bills labeled:

“Expired” or “Past Due”.

Copies of resumes, and applications would fall out on occasion. Too young to know what it all meant. Old enough to know that red stamp on paper meant trouble.

I shake myself out of my hurt memories, to put in the code. The code. Something that usually bind things together. I would spend an hour as a kid flipping through number combinations. Though an hour isn’t guaranteed with whatever is breathing inside.

I stare at the chipped lock mechanism. It’s been opened and closed who knows how many times. Staring at it wouldn’t cause the code to appear in my mind. Just as staring at a clock wouldn’t cause time to move faster. Staring, however, did help me see the indents on the side of the lock. Barely scratch in, as if someone carved into it with a key. 6 numbers, 2 sets, but the codes were there.

I enter the first set: “1-1-2”. It unlocks the first hatch. The code belongs to my sister’s date of birth. His first born. The other who shares my blood, my pain, and my loss. Given the key to his coffin. To a lock that will remain closed, and undisturbed. His death had made us estranged for a while. Though we share this loss. We must process it differently.

The second set: “3-1-7”. A combination I’ve known for as long as I could remember. Funny, I don’t remember a single birthday that he attended. The promises and false hopes are more vivid than most memories I have of him. I wonder if he etched our birthdays on here for us to unlock it. Or simply because he often forgot them. Before the burial, I was given the flag of which he fought for. Folded neatly in a triangle. It now hangs above his mantle. It would be a lot to live up to, if he’d had joined nobly. It was mentioned that he’d joined the service to avoid college. A sad truth. Though he was here, I often remember not knowing him.

Regardless, the second hatch unlocks, and the briefcase is still breathing. I open it, hoping for the most reasonable answer. I find—a computer, his laptop. Still on, with enough charge. I pick it up, it’s hot from the battery, the fan blowing out air in attempt to cool. I drop to the floor in laughter. I used to play “Space Invader” pinball, and online chess on the device. I sit in the chair and open the laptop. It’s locked, but this password is known by everyone in the house. I type in the password. It loads for several minutes.

“You knew the code?”

I almost jump out of the chair. My sister, a year older, walks to me. Telling me to scoot over in a chair that could fit 2 children playing games. It could barely hold 2 teenagers processing their loss. It was the closes we’ve been in weeks.

I’m thankful for her, for being here. I’m thankful for him, that she’s here.

The screen goes black. The keyboard glows, and we wait.

Seconds pass- a vibrant lotus background loads onto the screen. Along with many folders. One already opened, labeled:

“World”.

I click on it. A series of photos load on screen. I click on the first one. My dad, my sister, and me.

The carnival. The first carnival trip we took. I click the “next” arrow, showing another picture. There are multiple files, filled with photos of the few memories we have. My sister said,

“You know, I thought all of this. These memories were dead.”

I smile at her,

“You should’ve been here when it was breathing."