The Joy In Little Things

The tan, padded envelope had been on the table for several weeks. Other pieces of mail clustered around it like it was just another bill Elizabeth didn’t want to open. But she knew this one was not like the others.

The kettle whistled and she poured its hot water into a mug. A rusty color exploded from the teabag. She had promised herself a good cup of tea whenever she was brave enough to sit down and open the padded envelope. This afternoon, after work, she finally felt brave enough.

The return address on the envelope was marked Sacramento, California. That’s how she knew it was from her father and that’s why she had waited to open it.

She took the envelope and her tea and sat down in the living room. The afternoon sun came soft and golden through the windows. Outside a gentle breeze ruffled the trees and made the hydrangea bob their heads. Carefully, she tore off the top of the envelope to reveal a little black book tucked inside. An elastic closure wrapped around the book and a black ribbon bookmark peaked out from the bottom. The edges were worn.

Her dad had always had these little books scattered around. He kept notes, stories, little sketches and even poems in them. She smiled with fondness. He had been endlessly creative.

Opening the book caused a check to flop nonchalantly into her lap. “Twenty-thousand dollars and no cents” tumbled across its surface in her father’s shaky handwriting. Excitement and surprise fluttered in her chest but was quickly replaced by the sting of tears. He thought of her even though they rarely talked. She hoped he knew she had thought of him, too.

Distance, career and family squabbles had kept their relationship a cautious one. There had still been tender moments, of course. He was, after all, still the one who walked her down the aisle. He was also the one who showed up, out of the blue and from four states away, to help her move when she filed for divorce.

He was there when Abigail was born. It was such a happy occasion. He was overjoyed to become a grandfather.

After four days he left to go back to Sacramento. She had packed him sandwiches and potato salad in containers she was ok with never seeing again. She made him promise to call when he got home. He did.

That had been five months ago. It was three weeks ago that she received the call that he had passed and the next day that she received the envelope.

Placing the check on the end table, Elizabeth thumbed through the pages of the book. It was empty except for a letter, written to her, on the first page.

June 14th, 2020

My Dearest Elizabeth,

I know this letter comes as a surprise. I apologize for that. I just didn’t have it in my heart to tell you any bad news. I figured, life is for living, right? I didn’t want to focus on anything other than that.

I’ve enclosed a check and I want you to split it. Use half of it for a college fund for Abby and half for yourself.

I’m going to miss you and Abby. Please tell her about her granddad. Tell her how I loved butterscotch sundaes and writing bad poems. Let her know I was a morning person and that my favorite color was teal. Tell her my favorite sound was her laugh.

I think it’s the little things that are really the big things. I remember when you were born the nurses wrapped you in a blanket with little ladybugs on it. I remember the ice cream cone I got you with your first scraped knee. I remember how happy your mom was when you were accepted into Stanford. She burned dinner that night, so we ordered pizza.

I’m sorry I won’t be there to see Abby grow up but please know I’ll be watching. You’ll feel me in the first drops of rain before a storm and see me in every twinkle of a star. I will always be there.

Please keep this book and write in it. Use it as a journal but promise me something. Only use it to write down the little things. I don’t want its pages to see anything big and certainly nothing sad. Jot down what makes Abby smile. Record the kindness of strangers. Write down the wisdom you read from fortune cookies and how you hold your breath when you first glimpse the ocean.

In the end, it’ll be these little things that bring you joy.

With all my love,

Dad

Elizabeth closed the book, wiped at her eyes and looked out the window. The sun was starting to set and it was that magical hour right before dusk where all the colors were rich and vibrant. The breeze still danced through the tree branches and gently rocked the hydrangea.

She noticed a quick blur of color on one of the hydrangea blooms. Looking closer she saw a ladybug flutter its wings before settling down in the folds of the flower.

Elisabeth smiled and opened the book.