Oct 212006

I started to clean out the office closet to get rid of all the obsolete computer parts, CDs, and papers, and ran across a box of my dad’s stuff that my aunt sent me some time after he died. I flipped through the pictures and papers: report cards, school essays, photographs from when he was a baby all the way up to his 60s. There was a handmade card to my grandma, probably done in grade school, with hearts and “I Love You Mother” done all over it in red crayon. Both of them are gone now, and this little scrap of paper remained, severed from those who once gave it meaning. It made me feel a bit sad and lonely to hold the entirety of someone’s life in a stack in my hand. Most of the people in the pictures are long gone, so the photographs have no real significance to anyone anymore. They’re just ghosts in a box: the reduction of a long, rich life to squares of paper and slowly fading ink.

Someday, someone may go through my things the same way…

I believe I’ll have another beer.

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