Day 15 - Is this it?

Is this it?

Matthew Fischer

And so it goes. And so it is. And so it went. My father left a note. He left instructions. “When I go...” A laundry list of things and items and valuables. Where to search. What to look for. What book had been hollowed out and had drawer had a fake bottom, and all the wonderful things that could be hidden there. Except that none of it was true.

My father left a list, but really he left a lie, a joke, a comedy of errors. A code number for a record that was missing from the shelf. A signed manuscript in the back of a closet that turned out to be empty. A misprinted coin that had yet to be found. It was unimaginable to think he was playing a trick or prank. Inconceivable. A prank from beyond the grave? It would be the most insulting thing a father could do in death. It would never be clever or funny. It would just be torture.

Perhaps my father had been losing his mind and forgotten what he had or hadn’t sold. It was just a list he forgot to update. Would that be a tragedy? Perhaps not the worst thing in the world. Sad, but forgivable.

Perhaps some thief had been there first? If so, how would they have known? Who could have been after my father and why? A lonely old man with his lonely old hobbies and collections of things no young person had ever heard of or wanted. He would have been a horrible target. And yet, it was possible.

One thing. I dug a hole in the back yard next to a pear tree. One thing he left. One thing that was true. In a way. Partially true.

He buried a jar. Why? What was the point? An empty jar. A pinch of dust or dirt or ash in the bottom. What had it been? Anything? Did he think he was burying something important? He made it abundantly clear that I was to find this jar. That I was to protect its contents. That this, above all else, this single item was the most important item I could find. I could throw out anything else – toss it, leave it, burn it, whatever. Do anything to any of these items, but find that jar. Find it. Dig until I found it. Save it and keep it safe.

He thought he had something. Something of great importance. What was he doing? What had he left me? A great big cosmic joke. On me or on him? Either way it was so small and sad. Was that it? All he was now? All he amounted to? All that would be left?

There was one glimmer that caught my eye. The sunlight struck the dirt covered jar, and for a moment I saw a rainbow. What’s that word, quartz or prism or something like that? The jar looked like pretty standard boring glass. No special carvings or design. Was there such a thing as antique class? Could a jar have been owned by someone famous? Or come from some special city or point in history that would make it so different, so special? It looked so ordinary. Just plain glass. But if that were it, why did think it was something different?

His worthless junk was going to go in the trash. Or maybe a donation somewhere. Or an estate sale. But the jar? Maybe I should clean it. Put it on a shelf somewhere. It was the last great mystery my father left me. Maybe I could cremate him and put his ashes in it. If he thought so much of this mysterious item, then perhaps it should be his eternal home.

I couldn’t help but think there was something important I was missing. Something magical. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened it. Or dug it up at all. I should have left it under that tree and let someone decades or centuries later find it.

What was it dad? What were you trying to tell me? Why couldn’t it be easy? If this is how I would always remember you by, why couldn’t it have been something like a clear message of love or respect or admiration? But no. A dirty jar. The least I could do would be to wash it off and see if I could do something with it to remember him by.