After my father passed away I sat in his apartment and looked at his things; taking it all in. I remember he told me that everything that was important to him would be located in a pink, plastic storage bin. I sat in his old, blue recliner that my husband had given him when we moved to Arizona 17 years prior. I surveyed the contents of his coffee table that I describe in my book as his “central command station.” It was littered with his ashtray, lighter, notepaper, pens and remote control for the TV—all lined up neatly, as if they were waiting his return. I took in the familiar smell of cigarettes and wondered how it was possible that he could’ve breathed at all with the heaviness of the third-hand smoke. I felt strange and uncomfortable being in his space without him there, almost like I was trespassing.
Before my dad passed he told me that nothing he owned had any value and to just get rid of it all—all except the contents of the pink tub. I grabbed a pair of his old Levi’s and a couple of my favorite flannel shirts, and one more very important item. My Uncle Joe had given him a coat that was embroidered with his first name on the front and the words: “Joe Troy and Sons” on the back. He was so proud of his brother and wore my uncle’s business T-shirts so much I used to joke that he deserved to be paid for advertising.
It made me sad that my father had worked his whole life and his small apartment was about to get bagged-up and sent out for donation or the garbage can. When I finally had the guts to open the tub that was tucked away near his pile of bills and paperwork, I discovered something unexpected. Suddenly I didn’t feel sad anymore. I realized that what mattered to him wasn’t a set of dishes, his couch or the bedroom furniture.
When I popped open the lid to the pink container I found his treasure—a lifetime of love. He had saved every card I had ever sent him. All the way back to when I was in college in 1986. He also saved every postcard, notepad and joke that my friends Jill, Glee and I had mailed him over the years. There was a Father’s Day card I had sent him years ago that had a button you could pin on a shirt that read: “I am a father of a truly AMAZING daughter!” Which made me laugh out loud because I remember when I gave it to him he put it on immediately and sarcastically said as he laughed, “Wow! This is perfect Honey Babe. I’ll wear it with pride.”
Beyond the cards I found a stack of his annual calendars that he transferred all of the important family dates that he tracked like divorces, deaths and birthdays. Beneath that was a pile of newspaper clippings of obituaries and funeral dedication cards. Everyone he loved who had gone before him was there all together like a collection of his fans who were waiting for him to join them.
After reading all the cards and letters I had mailed him, I realized that it was a paper trail of love. The remnants of what had carried us through the tough times. It felt like he knew I would need the laughs and it was the greatest gift that he could’ve given me.
I wasn’t sad anymore that his worldly possessions had no value. He knew what was important. He knew what I needed. He saved and packaged up all the love he could—and that is what I will always carry with me. Love. It doesn’t get any more important than that.
“All that is worth cherishing in this world begins in the heart.”—Suzanne Chazin
Who are your six?
Love,
Terrina
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