bits of scrap paper found after the storm. Gently I place it on the bed and sit down beside it. Otto walks around on the covers, watches me with weary eyes, his eyebrows heavy with concern. I pick up the stack of papers and photographs from inside. There’s nothing of value here. Nothing that anyone else would want. A rusty screw rolls along the length of the box. Along the bottom are bits and pieces—a silver dollar,a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing, a bent fork, a yellowed die, a crusty ribbon from a high school football game. Nothing of significance and yet all more precious to me since this is all that remains.
Picking up a dull penny, I rub the pad of my thumb over the engraved face and date, close my eyes. Bits and pieces of memories roll through my mind until I crumple my features in an effort to block out the images. When I open my eyes, the penny is hidden within my tight fist.
I recognize Momma’s careful handwriting on a torn envelope. Whatever was once inside is missing now. My fingers glide over her lettering, the smeared ink. The address means nothing. I skim over the name, which I don’t recognize. Finally, I set the envelope aside.
One by one, I look through a handful of black-and-white photographs. Some are yellowed from age, others splotched and dotted with water damage. There’s a color picture of Abby and me in our pajamas on Christmas morning, our hair in sponge curlers, eyes bright with excitement. Behind us the Christmas tree leans precariously toward the window. We helped Momma pick it out at Ernie’s tree farm. The trunk was so crooked, we finally hammered a nail in the wall and attached a string to the top of the tree.
There’s a black-and-white of Momma in her teens holding a baby pig. I flip the picture over and on the back is the date—May 1965. Looking back at the picture, I study her smile, her smooth complexion, capable hands that hadn’t yet been worn down by hard work. Her long skirt hides her polio-withered leg. She didn’t know what lay ahead for her, the hardships of the future.
The next picture stumps me. At first the man is a stranger to me, but then I recognize him. It’s the eyes, hissmile, which is slightly slanted to the left. A young version of my father. What does he look like now? If only I’d been awake when he came to see me. If only …
My chest tightens. When I was four, I called him Daddy. Abby was a couple of years younger than me, young enough not to remember. I stare at his smile, recognize the cowlick in his forehead as my own. Abby has his chin, his straight teeth. He was an undeniably handsome man. For a time I imagined he was a prince or a knight who would ride in and save me from a spelling test I wasn’t prepared for, or to declare me a princess and therefore worthy of some boy’s attention, or to rescue me from Tommy Parker who pressured me in the back of his father’s Buick.
But wishing never worked out so well. My father never rode in on a steed or even in a dilapidated clunker.
Other times I imagined he was a tattooed biker, sitting in prison, or a snarling monster like Hannibal Lecter, trying to convince myself that it was a good thing he’d left. We didn’t want him , not the other way around. But the truth, I’ve always known, lay somewhere in between.
In this picture, the wind ruffles his sandy hair. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing a hint of a white undershirt. His sleeves are rolled up, showing muscular forearms. He’s leaning back against a fence, his elbows propped on the top rung, his hands dangling. I can’t remember his hand smoothing my hair, holding mine, or teaching me how to tie my shoes. I do remember the warmth of his touch against my ear, then quick as a flash he’d show me a coin, usually a penny, sometimes a quarter, that he’d pulled from behind my ear. My childish heart longs to lean into that hand, to know him. My adult, analytical brain wonders what he’s like. Who he voted for in the last
Picking up a dull penny, I rub the pad of my thumb over the engraved face and date, close my eyes. Bits and pieces of memories roll through my mind until I crumple my features in an effort to block out the images. When I open my eyes, the penny is hidden within my tight fist.
I recognize Momma’s careful handwriting on a torn envelope. Whatever was once inside is missing now. My fingers glide over her lettering, the smeared ink. The address means nothing. I skim over the name, which I don’t recognize. Finally, I set the envelope aside.
One by one, I look through a handful of black-and-white photographs. Some are yellowed from age, others splotched and dotted with water damage. There’s a color picture of Abby and me in our pajamas on Christmas morning, our hair in sponge curlers, eyes bright with excitement. Behind us the Christmas tree leans precariously toward the window. We helped Momma pick it out at Ernie’s tree farm. The trunk was so crooked, we finally hammered a nail in the wall and attached a string to the top of the tree.
There’s a black-and-white of Momma in her teens holding a baby pig. I flip the picture over and on the back is the date—May 1965. Looking back at the picture, I study her smile, her smooth complexion, capable hands that hadn’t yet been worn down by hard work. Her long skirt hides her polio-withered leg. She didn’t know what lay ahead for her, the hardships of the future.
The next picture stumps me. At first the man is a stranger to me, but then I recognize him. It’s the eyes, hissmile, which is slightly slanted to the left. A young version of my father. What does he look like now? If only I’d been awake when he came to see me. If only …
My chest tightens. When I was four, I called him Daddy. Abby was a couple of years younger than me, young enough not to remember. I stare at his smile, recognize the cowlick in his forehead as my own. Abby has his chin, his straight teeth. He was an undeniably handsome man. For a time I imagined he was a prince or a knight who would ride in and save me from a spelling test I wasn’t prepared for, or to declare me a princess and therefore worthy of some boy’s attention, or to rescue me from Tommy Parker who pressured me in the back of his father’s Buick.
But wishing never worked out so well. My father never rode in on a steed or even in a dilapidated clunker.
Other times I imagined he was a tattooed biker, sitting in prison, or a snarling monster like Hannibal Lecter, trying to convince myself that it was a good thing he’d left. We didn’t want him , not the other way around. But the truth, I’ve always known, lay somewhere in between.
In this picture, the wind ruffles his sandy hair. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing a hint of a white undershirt. His sleeves are rolled up, showing muscular forearms. He’s leaning back against a fence, his elbows propped on the top rung, his hands dangling. I can’t remember his hand smoothing my hair, holding mine, or teaching me how to tie my shoes. I do remember the warmth of his touch against my ear, then quick as a flash he’d show me a coin, usually a penny, sometimes a quarter, that he’d pulled from behind my ear. My childish heart longs to lean into that hand, to know him. My adult, analytical brain wonders what he’s like. Who he voted for in the last
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