A Letter to My Son

A Letter to My Son

“Like this!” She whispered, her small fingers fluttering in front of a flashlight. Her shadows danced on the wall, soaring and swooping. Her hair, tiny strands of yellow and gold, caught the light. Smiling, she joined her father in a haphazardly constructed tent made of chairs, pillows, and sheets that had been thrown together in the living room of her late grandfather’s house. “It was a bird,” She said, matter-of-factly, and laid beside her father with heavy eyes. She always fought sleep, afraid to miss out on something exciting. He loved that about her, as she was always so ready for life.

Despite her battle with sleep, she drifted off within moments and her small breaths were the only sounds that could be heard in the void of that house. He sat there, simply looking down at her and wishing that he could freeze time. Moments like this - they were simple and perfect. How many times had he perhaps overlooked them, only to reflect back and wish he had paid more mind? Wish he had memorized every little detail?

He carefully stood in an effort not to wake her. Taking the flashlight with him, he left the living room they were camped out in, and made his way up the stairs. These stairs, he thought, as he ran his calloused fingers over the wooden railing. It had been months since he had touched them with his own two hands, as life had become busy and - although he was ashamed to admit it - a visit to his father’s house had seemed like a burden. He regretted that now.

The paint was chipping on the rail, but that much he already knew, for his father had kept asking for him to stop by and fix it up; his mother was “turning in her grave” knowing that it looked like that. Now he too, was gone, and most likely shaking his head from above in good humor at the peeling paint. He entered his father’s bedroom with that thought in his mind, sighing as he flipped on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. Reaching for a cardboard moving box, he began to aimlessly pack random items away - a pile of books his father never read, a collection of vintage pens he never used. It was with a heavy heart that he had made the decision to sell this house - the house he grew up in - for it no longer felt like home. As he placed a picture of himself with his father into the box, an overwhelming feeling of melancholy rising up from within him.

He began to search under the bed, not expecting to find anything, as his father had always been a rather clean and tidy man. And yet, there sat a small box. He pulled it out, noticing that it was an old, repurposed Christmas gift box, with red and gold stripes. How odd that this would be sitting dusty and neglected, under his bed. A small plume of dust billowed up as he removed the lid, and he wondered how long it had been there. Inside, lay a pocket-sized black book, it’s cover worn around the edges and the pages yellowed with age. It looked heavily used and yet neglected, all at once. Delicately, he reached into the box to remove the little book, and opened its cover with care.

In fine script and faded black ink, the first page was dated June 1st, 1897. His hands were shaky as he turned the page to the next. He whispered the words aloud, “A letter to my son…” he stopped, strangely hesitant to read anymore as it somehow felt intrusive. But he continued regardless, his curiosity driving him. The words painted quite a clear picture - it was his great grandfather who scrawled in these pages, and he had left a small monetary inheritance to his son. Words of love and appreciation filled these pages. Words of sadness, too, as mention of sickness found their way into what he now realized was a goodbye letter.

When he reached the end of the letter, he kept turning the pages. Stumbling across four or five blank ones, he was disappointed there wasn’t more, for this brief look into history was gripping. But he turned three more times, and he found more letters - three different ones - all from his grandfather to his father. On one page, his grandfather had written, “ - I hope this letter finds you well, my son. It is my hope that this money can help you in a time of need, as it has helped me -”

What a thought - that the men in his family had been writing to each other for generations. That they had been adding to a small inheritance for years and years. He continued to read, soaking up every last word, his heart beating in his chest as he tried to make sense of it all. His grandfather had written four entries in the notebook, all starting with “A letter to my son -” detailing each instance in which he had pulled from the inheritance, as well as how much he subsequently added to it. “ - it is yours to do with as you please,” his grandfather had written in the last letter, “I intend for you to use it in any way you need.” The monetary amount had grown substantially by then, well into the thousands.

Turning the page, his breath caught in his chest. Immediately, he noticed the thin nature of his own father’s penmanship, and the way it ever so slightly leaned to the right. He closed the book, for if he read this, he was sure he’d cry. For many moments he sat there on the floor of his parent’s old bedroom, staring at this small black notebook, hyper-aware that his great grandfather, grandfather, and father had all held this book in their own hands. Gathering his courage, he opened it back up to his father’s entry, dated March 1st, 1986. It began like the others, addressing the letter to his son - to him. It read: “Today you were born. I plan to use some of this money to buy us a house, one that you can grow up in. One that you can feel like is home...” And it went on, four separate letters, his father providing the details of how he used the money and how he replenished it. Every time he took money out of the inheritance, it was all for him - his son. When he broke his arm, and when he went to college - every time he took money out it was for him. Never selfishly.

As he approached the last of the letters addressed to him, he didn't want it to end. He could practically hear his father’s voice reading it to him in his soft, warm tone. But there was one last page left, dated only four months ago. Tears now surfaced, and he didn’t bother holding them back. He touched his fingers to the writing and whispered the last words his father had written on those pages, “You have a choice, as we all did before you. This money is yours, to do with as you please. There is no shame in whatever you choose to use it for.” Attached to the page was a bank slip providing access to an account with exactly twenty thousand dollars in it. He paled, the notebook shaking in his hands. All that money, and it was his to do with as he pleased. He began to think of the vacation house in Maine he had always dreamed of, and how that sum could help him pay off his college debt. Such a large amount of money, and he was ashamed to admit that he was torn between his own selfish desires.

After a while his tears had dried and he stood. Taking one of his father’s vintage pens from the moving box, he sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning over the bedside table under the dim light of the lamp, he turned to the next empty page, touching the tip of the pen to the yellowed paper. He thought of the little girl downstairs and her shadow puppet fluttering across the wall of the house he grew up in, surrounded by love and security. He silently thanked the generations before him and began to write:

“A letter to my daughter -”