not yet titled.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

(the beginnings of a possible story)

it seems as though her life is turned upside down, and the only thing she holds on to are the daily letters that arrive in the mail from her father, who died just a few weeks ago.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - not yet titled.

Submitted: May 21, 2011

Reads: 188

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 21, 2011

A A A

A A A

 

 

Aunt Linda drove me away from the only town I had ever lived in with a sympathetic smile on her face, constantly asking about the new school I was going to attend in the fall, my plans for summer, and if I was too hot or too cold. There wasn’t much she could do about the temperature in her old Ford Bronco, seeing as how the air conditioner’s purpose was served through the windows on either side of the car. I knew she was just trying to be nice and make me feel happy again, but nothing was going to do that.

I brought my box of letters with me. They were sitting gently in the backseat behind Linda, and I felt as if they were haunting me. I moved them over to the seat behind me so I couldn’t see them unless I really tried to. Each white envelope bore my father’s title in his scraggy old handwriting that I had always loved.

love always,

Dad

A list of things to do before I die. Basically a bucket list, if you prefer that term. I don’t have one. Everyone should have one, I think, but I have no idea where to start. Every time I think of an applicable activity, my mind automatically associates it with the one person who taught me that adventure is the greatest definition of life. And then I stop. You always hear on the news or on crime shows about houses burning down, children being kidnapped, or people dying by the hand of other people. We as a society become numb to these things unless they happen to someone close to us or even ourselves. Let me tell you right now, even though I know people have been through things a little worse than me, it doesn’t make me feel any better about these circumstances. Teenagers complain about their fathers being over protective, but they don’t know quite how it feels to have their dad die for the very purpose of protecting my life and so many others, leaving their family with no explanation. There was no way we could know what exactly happened to him.

To cut to the chase, my dad was the light of my life. He never took for granted the times that we got to spend with each other, which were always cut short because of his job. I understood why he had to leave every time his phone rang. He’d told me once that “what we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal”. This has become a cornerstone of my life. I don’t think anyone would have thought that my mother’s drug use would have stayed in the world after she died; no, no, it went away with her, and luckily my childhood didn’t fall away with it. But my father’s role in “catching bad dudes”, as I used to say in my I-think-I’m-cool-because-I’m-in-elementary-school days, will leave a mark on both my life and the lives of countless amounts of people that his own life has affected.

Everyday I walk out to the mailbox of my Aunt Linda’s house and every day I return into the house with an envelope bearing the trademark of the scraggly old handwriting that I loved. He was smart and had them sent to her house; he knew I wouldn’t want to be alone, surrounded by old memories that are now just dreams, in our old home if anything ever happened to him. Its contents would usually contain something of what happened the day that he wrote it, good memories between him and I, but it always ended with him telling me a different way each day, each letter, that I had impacted his life. I spend my days now reading and rereading the letters that my father had written to me for years, wondering how they are getting to me in such an orderly fashion, and who had been gifted with the task of delivering them to me.

The dates on each of these letters were getting closer and closer to the last day I saw him. Every time I thought about this, my whole body froze in fear of my father’s voice leaving forever. I knew it would happen, I knew it was inevitable that the letters would stop, (unless there’s a post office in heaven that delivers all the way to Texas).It’s kind of like knowing that your father’s job is life threatening, but hoping and praying all the while that it will never come to that. Well, just like the inevitable says it does, it does.

 

The door bell rang, and I had a strange urge it was for me. This was the last day, after all. I had expected something different to happen on this day, so I picked up my courage from off the floor and walked to the front door, where no one was standing. Just like in the movies, I almost close the door until I see it lying on the ground, right square in the middle of the WELCOME mat, staring at me with its scraggly old handwriting. After the tedious task of opening the abnormally large, bulky letter very carefully, my eyes scanned over the pages inside the envelope, but these pages were marked by different handwriting. Not his. Probably twenty different letters with names that I had never been allowed to know explained who they were in relation to my father; how they knew him, how much they loved and respected him, and how much he displayed his love for me, his only daughter, in everything that he did while at work. Under all these pages laid a shiny golden shape of metal bound into a flat leather wallet. The words “Federal Bureau of Investigation” made themselves known on the shiny golden plate in the dim light of the guest room which was to be my room, and the picture of my father that sat beside the words was full of happiness, contentment, love. All the things that I wanted to associate with him from now until I die.

 

 

love always,

me.

 


© Copyright 2020 kathrynannabelle. All rights reserved.

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