Letting go.

Letting Go

It has been six months since his father, Lloyd Minister, passed away. But the last three weeks have been a trial for Eugene. All of Lloyd's possessions had to be stored when Eugene removed them from his father's room at the senior's home where Lloyd had only spent one night. Most items, mainly furnishings, have now been sold, except the antique pieces he and his wife kept. Clothing, bedding and other things nobody wanted were given away. The Salvation Army van had picked them up last week. Eugene himself had carried out the last box, packed with his father's folded suits, to place it in the van. With head hanging and deep reluctance he had set the carton softly in the vehicle but couldn't let it go, couldn't take his hands away from the last remnants of the man's physical presence. The driver had had to coax him, lead him gently aside.

Only four cartons remain, the same ones Eugene had been putting off for weeks. Lloyd referred to them as his "four boxes of memories"; it wasn't going to be easy. Banker's boxes with the numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 written on their lids rest at Eugene's feet in the corner of his den. Early morning sunshine streams in through two large windows on the opposite wall to yellow the room with positive vibes. The brightness suggests to Eugene that this is a good time to discover his father's cherished possessions. He had cleared his cluttered desk earlier this morning so he would have enough space to dig through the containers.

Box number 1 has already been sorted and categorized. In it were deeds for two houses, Lloyds and his parent's homestead in Kent County, one for a forty acre parcel of land along the Richibucto River, Lloyd's last will and testament – freshly returned from the lawyer – several bank books detailing a rich and tidy sum of $36,341.89, and bank statements for the last five years. All that was left for Eugene to do was file everything except the $25,000.00 insurance policy, which he had yet to claim. He had already discarded the useless receipts and documents, leaving the box half full. Eugene pushes it aside with his foot.

Its 8:30 on a Saturday morning. Lifting box 2, he places it on his desk. Removing the flat top, he sets it against the nicked leg of the desk. He remains standing so he can see what's in the box. . On top are seven clear envelope folders, 8½ x 11 inches, with a thin elastic string stretching from the button on the flap to the matching button on the envelope, holding it closed. Each folder holds a ribbon proclaiming 1st or 2nd place. Eugene leafs through them, stopping at one that holds a blue 1st place ribbon and a 6x4 black and white photo. In the picture, Lloyd and Eugene are standing in front of a 762 lb. pumpkin. Eugene's pants are an inch too short and he wears suspenders over a white shirt. He is five. Lloyd wears a plaid shirt and coveralls, a dark fedora low over his brow, a dead cigar in his mouth. He is sixty and the ribbon is pinned to his chest.

Eugene fondly remembers the tenderness and attention his father gave to his pumpkin patch. Even after long days of fishing in the Atlantic, he tended his orange beauties. Unwinding the flimsy strings on the envelopes, he saves the photos. The plastic folders and the ribbons, he slowly lowers into the garbage bin at his side. Feelings of betrayal unnerve him, making him want to dig everything back out. But they're meaningless to Eugene, so he forces his mind away.

A bundle of old photos with curled edges from the red elastic that holds them sits askew upon a folded newspaper. Removing the rubber band, he leafs through the pictures. He's seen them before, mostly people he doesn't know and deceased relatives. There are not many, maybe twenty or so, all black and whites. Deciding he'll ask Margaret, his father's cousin, about them, he replaces the elastic holding them and sets the packet on the front right corner of his desk, the spot he has designated for things he doesn't know what to do with but that can't be thrown out.

Digging through the remaining items, many of them end up in the "round file" at his feet except the folded newspaper. It's dated July 16, 1969. On the front page, top of the fold, is a photo of the Saturn V rocket lifting off from Merritt Island, Florida, with the Apollo 11 crew of Collins, Armstrong and Aldrin. Eugene reflects for a moment, smiling as he remembers Lloyd's fascination with the moon: it told him when to plant his pumpkins, it controlled the tides, riding the sky as it waned and waxed. But mostly, Eugene loved to imagine that men walked upon its surface. A tiny tap on the door interrupt's his thoughts. Setting the newspaper in the "don't what to do with it" corner, he calls out, "C'mon in."