My mom and I spent the morning packing up stuff in my dad’s apartment. Maybe this is a regular thing to discover after a death, but there’s so much of my dad that I’m realizing he kept from me. Photo albums of romantic trips to Venice, letters, birthday card jokes, the context of which I don’t understand. It makes me sad. We were so close, but I wish I understood him better. I wish he knew that I wanted to know these things about him. Maybe he’d still be here.
My mom found this ring in it’s gift bag in a drawer. Who was it for? Not me, his one daughter. He gave me bracelets, as you all know. It’s so heavy on my finger right now. Typing this is awkward. The ring is amber in silver. It’s mine now. But what do I do with it? What do I do with all of this stuff? My car is loaded with his coffee table books to sell at Green Apple Books after work today. What compelled him to buy so many damn coffee books? If there’s a lesson from this morning it’s that nobody need ever buy coffee table books and that dying reveals secrets but creates questions.
My bangles are the North Africanish bangle, Brazil, Clic Clac Orange and Clic Clac Cream.