My Father the Artist

It had been sitting on my kitchen table for about two months now. It slowly cemented itself in place as unopened letters, shopping catalogues, and magazines slowly piled around it, until only my face was left, reflecting on the small part of the screen which was still visible. After Mom died, I took the computer along with boxes of other things without really thinking. It completely slipped my mind that it needed a password until it was already in my possession. I knew it at some point, but it must've gotten lost somewhere along my time growing up.

After another night sharing another dinner with the computer as my date, I brought my plate to the sink to be cleaned. I looked back at the computer, this once magical machine which was now a silent observer of my mundane life. I wondered what Mom would do in this situation. She'd probably know the password already. And if not, she'd somehow magically find it (as mothers do), then proceed to scold me for not looking hard enough (as mothers do). I looked back at the mountain on my table and heard my mother's voice fussing over the mess.

"Fine," I sighed. I'd look once more.

I pulled out the boxes from under the chairs. I'd collected them because of my curse of nostalgia, I couldn't bear to see any of her stuff go. Unfortunately, the majority of her possessions were now in the hands of someone else. James said everything had to sell, but I fought to keep my share.

"It's junk," he said. Junk. He called it junk.

Among the boxes included books, clothes, and jewelry. Pages my mother once flipped through, dresses she once wore. In other boxes were photo albums with pictures of my parents as children. There were a few of me and James, but the majority of them had been uploaded onto the computer (this being the main motivation behind my need to unlock it). One of my mother's notebooks were sticking out of this box. It was a book of recipes, most of which she had found online. James probably would've thrown it out, but I grabbed it so I could look at her handwriting again. Going through everything reminded me of the archaeology class I took in college. I felt as if I were excavating some archeological dig site, handling each fragile artifact with care. I started to flip through the notebook, but it opened up quickly to a page with an index card in it. A jumble of numbers and letters had been scribbled in what was unmistakenly my father's handwriting. The sequence felt familiar. I looked over to the computer, I had to try it.

I tore down the mountain of my own junk and broke the computer free. After plugging it back in and a couple of tries to turn it on, the computer woke up and I was faced with the same barrier I had met last time. Only now, I had a possibility. I typed in the combination a couple of times, since there was a zero that could've been an O, a four that could've been a nine. After deciphering the code, I was finally in.

I started with the file explorer first to see if I could find my baby photos. There was a folder titled "Lila 1st Birthday," and as the name suggested, there were photos of me as a newly one year old girl. James had his arms around me with a big smile on his face, that charming smile he carried with him into adulthood. I clicked around and found pictures of school events, family vacations, and what seemed like endless birthday parties. Old photos are always interesting. They say, "this is me and I was here!" It was evidence of a point in your life, even if it doesn't show the argument you had with your mother that morning. Even if you had no recollection of the day at all. I could name everyone in the photos, our extended family and friends could all be found- younger versions of them at least. However, one person seemed to be notably missing from these pictures- my father. Save for the fact he was the one taking a majority of the photos, he seemed to have masterfully avoided a good portion of group pics and candid background shots. He did have a fair share of portraits, taken by my mother or any other family member, so he was not totally unaccounted for.

My father was a hardworking man. He was a kind man, but it was his quiet and reserved demeanor which defined him. Him and I didn't really do much together, we enjoyed simply being in each other's company. He had a lot more to talk about with James, whether it be sports or politics or whatever new blockbuster movie was out. Mom and I aren't big movie people. Well, Mom wasn't. I'm still not.

I clicked around some more and came across some word documents. They were titled as "Letters 2008" or "Letters 1999" depending on whatever year they came from. I opened a file from 2002. The letter was addressed to no one in particular, but my name was one of the first words to come up.

Today Lila had her first ballet recital, a junior version of the Nutcracker. She was a snowflake among many, but she shone brighter than everyone else

The words struck me, I'd never heard him express himself so poetically. I looked through more documents and found letters upon letters containing accounts of activities I had participated in, awards I had won, and any other minor achievement I had gained. I started to fight back tears, as if I had anyone to hide them from. I'd gotten the occasional "I love you" from my father, he wasn't heartless, but this was just another level. This was a documentation of me as a person, and my father as a selfless observer. Just like his photographs, each word seemed to be chosen carefully. So many moments I had forgotten about, now came with detailed descriptions, and a couple of photographs embedded between the text.

My father, the working man. He had a tendency to preoccupy his mind with bills, work, and more work. To live was to work, and he was good at living. While it may seem as though his life was all a giant chore, I now believe he made it his canvas, each day a new chance to make art. He found rhythm in routine, saw patterns in money. He captured the color and form of our daily lives. I wished I had paid more attention. I wished he were here. I wished all the things people wish when they're grieving. Mostly, I wished someone were able to capture him the way he was so perfectly able to capture us. Always the artist and never the muse I suppose. I went back to look at the photographs with the newfound lens of my father's eyes. With a second look I realized; though these were all portraits of everyone else, they were very easily portraits of himself. He took them deliberately because he had a vision, because he knew how to capture his essence in the scene. The right angle, the right lighting, the right moment, everything was accounted for. It seemed so perfectly planned, as though I could zoom into the reflection of someone's eye and see his face staring back. In every image of myself, I could see me looking back at him. When I saw a picture of Mom, I saw how much he loved her. When I saw a picture of James, I saw how similar the two men had become.

I turned off the computer and thought about calling James. There were plenty of photos of him, but not as many letters. I ended up emailing him the photos through the old computer, the machine helping me out once more. I didn't mention the letters. James and my father had many things shared together. This one could be between him and me.