A Field, A Box, & The Stars

A Field, A Box, & The Stars

I reminisced in the starlight, feeling the grass below me hug my posture as I laid in the empty field I tended to visit too often. There was a solace in the loneliness that field inspired, but one driven by the peace and chaos of one’s thoughts. Each star that captured my attention made me wonder if it had captured her attention too. Perhaps it was an idea that allowed me to believe she was closer than she truly was. That this loneliness was shared by my counterpart through the same focal point. I could spend eons staring at this ominous sky if it had meant she was staring at it too, for it was the idea of hope in the lost battle of love that began to strive in cold nights such as these. Each flower was a reminder of her scent that seemed to sweep me away, and each breeze of the wind a catalyst to long for her touch.

I was first drawn to this field by my father, a man of little words that seemed to be a prisoner to the loneliness I embraced. It was through him that I realized it was the pain in a man’s eyes that bred a different creature; one that was dull to the simple pleasures life had to offer. As if the pain could only be reconciled by the one event that had caused it. Eyes that lacked their infinite sparkle, a back that was hunched, and a grunt for a response whenever spoken to. It was as if the complexity of the emotions tied to his struggle had driven him to a life of simplicity, both in his demeanour and his daily schedule. His day begins with the morning sun at 5AM, where he finds himself eating a simple breakfast of eggs and sausage, before reading the daily paper dropped at our doorstep with a black coffee in hand and of course a cigarette.

My father was a steel worker that broke his back each day of the week with the exception of Sunday. He was out of the house before 7AM and most days did not return till sundown, a time of the day where he was met with a cold beer and a book slightly before his bed would call his name to repeat the process all over again. It was Sunday however, that seemed to intrigue me the most. A day that shattered the regular routine without any rhyme or reason to my knowledge, with the exception of a brown paper box. I could never deduce what that box entailed nor the story behind its growing significance in my father’s life. I had wondered as I drifted off into my fantasies whether the box was the medium to another world he had visited that one Sunday every week. Perhaps my father was a veteran and reminisced about his fallen comrades whose memoirs laid in that box. My imagination would stir for hours wondering what secret such a simple man had kept, and why it was worthy to shelter from the rest of the world.

This endeavour to find out the mystery behind the brown paper box began years ago when I had first noticed my father’s weekly routine of sneaking off to the field behind our home for hours at a time. The field was no ordinary piece of land, but instead was a natural production of beauty. It embodied rolling hills that raised high enough to set you at eye level with the city’s skyline miles across your view. It was large and engulfed the majority of our town, rising to form a cliff at the very edge of it. It was a cliff I had found myself drawn towards for its mass propensity to connect me to something larger than myself. It was as if time, space, and the universe were entities that met not too far away from me when I had found myself lying down at that magical edge. The feeling of a lack of understanding of whether or not you were staring into oblivion, the beauty to come, or a massive nothing fuelled a desire to want more. To know more.

I had wondered if this was my father’s obsession, one fuelled by the regularity of his routine and a need to break it. Could the box have contained a telescope to see farther than the mind could have imagined? Did he wish to escape symmetry and roll the dice on the possibility of nothingness? My imagination ran wild as it would in an 18-year-old desperate to seek the foundation that propels each being to a higher purpose.

When it came to my life I found purpose in love, for each second that she existed in drew me closer towards her. It was her acceptance of life and all the others in it that allowed her to flourish through kindness and a smile that was contagious at the least. I wondered if she had even remembered my name or noticed each wave I sent her way awkwardly. For it was her eyes that triggered the feeling of warmth to course through your veins as they saw and accepted your soul without hesitation. I longed for her touch but at that cliff I could not help but wonder if there was more. In the illusive yet grandiose ideas I had of my father, I trampled on the thought that I was missing something that he perhaps knew but chose to withhold from me. In the existential crisis that is parenting, I can only believe that he is protecting me, but from what?

It was a cool summer night that Sunday that I decided to follow my father and investigate the ominous nature of that box. Sneaking only a couple of meters behind him and using each hill to camouflage I remained silent. I laid on my stomach on the peak of a nearby hill as I watched him make his way to the cliff and settle into a chair he had brought with him. Beside him were two cups of whatever my father had been drinking that night. I instantly began to look around to ensure there wasn’t a third party arriving to meet my father. Confused and anxious I could not see anyone for miles. I began to think the second cup could have been for me, implying that he knew I was watching him, but this idea began to fade away as I recalled him telling me goodnight before I pretended to doze off into a deep sleep. Maybe I failed to fool him. My mind began racing attempting to reason a conclusion for that cryptic second cup but instantly fell silent when I noticed that the box had been opened.

I began to creep closer and closer to my father to distinguish what was inside of the box when I realized he had pulled out a single item no larger than his two hands put together. The rest of the box appeared empty as it laid sideways on the ground with diminishing importance. I crawled as dangerously close as I could get with both my eyes squinted in a flailing effort to make out what the object was. Before I was able to get close enough to identify this mysterious entity that my father had protected with his life, he had stood up. My search for answers wound up dry as he soon began to pack his things and get ready to head home. The second glass still being full was poured out over the cliff onto a river below that swallowed the drink instantly.

I was frustrated yet determined and had decided to follow my father home in an attempt to seek out the hiding spot of the illusive brown paper box. I had watched him sneak back into our house and make his way to the attic door; a latch on the ceiling of our third floor. Watching from across the hallway I had seen him very gently place the box on the floor of the attic and close the latch before walking to bed and falling asleep. My nerves suddenly began to consume me as I realized this was arguably my best chance to finally unveil the secret that laid in the box. I slowly opened the latch with my eyes peering side to side to ensure that any noise did not disturb my father’s sleep. My heart escaped my chest with each beat as I had finally felt the box before grabbing it and bringing it down from the attic.

I hugged the box close to my stomach and gently tiptoed to my room before closing the door and leaping onto my bed ready to tear the box open. I wondered again for a slight moment in time why this box remained a secret and perhaps of the repercussions of opening it. All hesitations were quickly shot down as I tore the lid off and found a single photograph inside. It appeared to be a photo of my father with a woman and a child I did not recognize. Every predication I had made began to crumble away as I stared at what I found. Confusion erupted with thoughts of a distant family my father may have had or relatives I did not quite know about. I turned the photograph around and noticed the inscription that read, “Take care of the both of you for me. Love, your forever”.

Tears began to drown my eyes as I noticed the birth mark on the child’s left arm that was identical exactly to mine. “Mom?” I whispered in a desperate but calm voice as the pain I had once felt as a child came to visit once again. My memories of my mother were scattered and riddled with agony I had felt from her lack of presence, recalling nothing but a goodbye at the age of 3 before my father had told me she was off to another beautiful place that we would soon see ourselves. It was the only photograph I had ever seen of my mom. Perhaps she was the cause of my father’s pain and his lack of drive for more in this life, for all he ever wanted was her.

I made my way back to the cliff that same night and sat down feeling distraught. I was disconnected from everything around me as I lost myself in the labyrinth of thoughts attempting to piece together a conclusion for my findings. I stared at the stars and wondered which one my father thought my mother was looking at too. Are we lost without love, or do we choose to be lost without it because of how heavy our heart may crave it?