The Little Brown Box

I get up, struggle to my feet and make my way to the bathroom. Grabbing the toothbrush, I look into the mirror, and for a second, I think, "Dad?" A solid moment of shock jolts me. I murmur, "I have got to stop drinking."

It's the weekend, so I will get coffee do my yard work, and enjoy my alone time. I grab my keys and open the door, and there is a box, a large box. "Since when do tricks leaves present's?" I whispered to myself, What could this be? "Wait, is it a bomb? or some kid playing a trick?" I stand there, unsure of what to do next. In a brief moment of courage, I pick it up. "Whew, ok, it didn't explode." I shook it gently. It has stuff in it.

I sit it on the table and think I'll get to it briefly. Then dash out the door for my coffee.

Driving, I kept thinking, who would send me a package? It wasn't by mail. It had to be delivered because there was no postage on it. I stop at the gas station and get out. This large man stares at me.

I was wrinkling his nose, giving him a sour face. I walk on, grabbing my coffee. Then to the cashier to pay for it. The cashier says, "The man before you paid for it." "There was no one before me, though." The clerk said, "Yeah, it's just been a while." I ask, "Was it the big one with his nose turned up?" He laughed, "No, that's Earl. He looks like that." I ask, joking, "Does he bite?" The clerk laughed and said, "Well." I laugh and "Don't tell me I don't want to know." We both laugh as I exit.

I come home and plug in my electric lawnmower and mow my lawn, then plug in my electric weed eater and trim my sidewalk. I tidy up everything getting it off the street. "Now my work is done here." Off to the box.

I sat at the table with my prepackaged portioned meals and opened it. The tape ripped, reminding me of the days of getting my back waxed, a memory I would rather never have again.

I reach in there is a huge note, "Son, I am sorry." In big, bold letters. Here are some things from when you were growing up I thought you might like to keep—your signed your father.

A strange thing happened to my whole body. I began to shake. We had a massive falling out when father found out I was gay. Our strained relationship suffered many bruises along the way until finally, one night he was drunk and I was intolerant we exploded.

I placed the items on the table one at a time, my football pictures, our fishing trip, my first four by four. When I graduated college, Dad was in all of them smiling, cheering me on. I heard him use the "F" word and my ears closed to him. I searched for what that word meant. It loosely started in England with people saying there goes a "Fag" because they had to carry their firewood to their crucifixion. I tried to explain to him how insulting it was and hurtful. He wouldn't listen. I walked away I said, "I am done. Eight years later, I am still done." Those words still haunt me.

I shoved the stuff to the side and walked through the house, and inside of me, there was this moment when your inner self speaks, and mine was saying, "It's time to fix it." I fought it off and said, "No, and justified myself with a thousand reasons why that too much is too much, and enough is enough." Yet that little voice said, "fix it."

I went back to the box, "We did have some fun." I started to remember the good times. I could feel the empty spot in my life where he had once been. I filled it with bars, beer, drag queens, liquor, and men. I always noticed that wholesomeness the tainted wholesomeness was gone. I missed it. I instantly got mad that I missed it.

I slammed my stuff against the floor. "To hell with this! You have done enough no more mind games!" I mentally turned him off again. The following day I woke up to the door shutting, "Hey, there's a box out here," As my trick closed the door behind himself on his sudden exit. I open the door, and there was a second box.

I open it, and it says, "Son, I know you opened the first one now, please come home. it's time for us to forgive each other, please?" With a phone number attached. I place the stuff on the table. In tears, it was all the stuff I loved growing up. He had saved it all. I fell to pieces, crying. When I finally could gather myself enough to get up. I packed a bag which actually means five. And was on the next plane, then rented a car. The drive brought back so many memories, good and bad. I pull up to the house.

Smiling faces appear in the window. Dad walks out, we hug and start talking. My brother's children were there with him for the week. We should go fishing! "That would be great!" We sit and talk and have honest conversations over the next few days, some with friction, all with solutions. We now understand each other far better than we ever did before, and strangely enough, we found out even though we are entirely different, we are the same. I am fortunate. I know not everyone has a happy ending to their story. I hope now we can see more happy endings to all of our stories.