My Father's Box of Pictures

A Families Treasures

By: Bikerider



My father was not the kind of man who showed his emotions, but that changed after he was diagnosed with cancer. It was during one of my last visits with him, when it was close to the end, that he displayed raw emotions that I never thought I would see. His voice was filled with urgency when he called and asked me to come over.

"I visited you the day before yesterday," I told him when he called. "Is everything alright?"

"I know you did, and I know you're busy," his voice broke, "but I found a box that I had forgotten about, and I want you to have it—before it's too late."

I put everything aside that afternoon and went to his apartment. When I arrived I could see that he was on edge. He had discovered something important, he told me, and then shuffled off to the bedroom. Street noises flowed into the living room on the gentle summer breeze as I sat waiting for him to return.

I heard his slippers scrape along the linoleum when he came back into the room. He cradled what looked like a shoe box in his arms. When he sat next to me, I saw that the box was made of wood, its edges were rounded and smooth from age. The ancient brass hinges whispered a squeak when he opened the top. I saw a mound of photographs inside, some of them banded into small bundles with rubber bands, others just single pictures. They were black and white, a lot of them were faded, the corners of some of the pictures were curled with age. My father lifted a scallop edged picture and stared at it with sorrowful eyes, then with a shaking hand he gave it to me.

"Your grandmother, Emma," he said. "She was my mother." His eyes turned red and his voice wavered. I had never seen my father look so forlorn.

"Dad," I put my hand over his, "Maybe we should do this another time."

His eyes suddenly grew wide and he grabbed my hand. "No, no, I want to tell you about this now—before it's too late." It was plain to see that he was willing to relive whatever it was he wanted to tell me.

"Sure, Dad," I said softly. "Tell me about my grandmother." I had never met my grandmother. When my grandfather immigrated to America she remained in Italy. I had never even seen a picture of her before now.

"She lived a hard life, but she always took care of us, she was a good woman."

The picture I held was her Passport photo from 1929, the one time she came to visit my grandfather in America. It was the last time he ever saw her. "She's pretty dad." She would have been about thirty-years-old in the picture. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. Her dark eyes were bright, even in this old picture. Her high cheek bones and wide mouth were set in the soft expression on her face. "I can see where you got your good looks," I quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

I watched his fingers work their way into layers of pictures, layers of years I thought. He pulled out several pictures and after looking at them he placed them back in the box gingerly. These pictures were important to him and I knew that someday I would look at all of them, but I would sit by myself when I did. A lonely feeling swept over me like a hot breeze. My father took out some pictures that put a smile on his face. I could see the happy memories playing in his eyes like a movie. He placed a couple of pictures in my hand. I knew these were the pictures that were important to him.

He pointed his finger at a picture of the small boy wearing shorts, craggy, misty mountains filled the background. "That was my brother Gino," he said sadly, "He died when he was only twenty-one-years-old." He pointed to another picture, this one was of a little girl of maybe ten, with curly hair who wore white shoes, and a white dress that matched the ribbon in her hair. There was a church with an open door in the background, a clergyman standing next to her. "That's my sister, Emma. She is still alive." His smile was still in place but beginning to waver. "Maybe one day you will visit her." I could hear the hope in his voice.

"Maybe one day I will, dad."

My father gently dug his fingers through the many years and memories contained in the wooden box. I could tell he found another significant picture. Holding it in front of his weakening eyes, he took a long look at it, and his hand began to shake more than usual. I watched his chin begin to stammer. Tears rolled down his cheek and spotted his pants. I knew he held an important memory in his trembling hands. The tears told me it wasn't a happy memory.

"This is your grandfather, his Passport picture from 1921." As he spoke his voice was laced with anger.

"Dad, was there something wrong? I asked, concerned.

"He was a hard man. He never cared for me I don't think. But I don't think he cared for anyone." Again, there was the anger, maybe even hatred.

"I'm sure you're wrong dad. No one can be that bad." My father was becoming upset and I hoped to end the conversation. "Maybe we should put all this away for another time." I said.

"There may not be another time, we both know that." His voice was tinged with pleading. He wanted to walk this path of nostalgia.

"Okay, dad."

I watched him dig his fingers back into the box. He pulled out a banded stack of pictures and separated them. As he sifted through them I saw a smile open up on his face.

"This is the house where we all lived, all five of us. Life was hard in that little village, but we were all together." He slowly handed me a picture, he seemed reluctant to let go. The house was old, made of rough rock. A small patch of dirt spread in front to a low rock wall. It was obvious the family that lived there was poor. At the end of the rock wall were three rock steps that ended at the stone street. I asked him if the house was still there.

"Your Aunt Emma told me it is. After I left I never went back."

"Maybe one day I'll see it." I told him.

"I hope you do, living there was the happiest days of my life." He was opening crying now. I took the wooden box from him and helped him into bed. His eyes were red and wet. He fell asleep quickly, his breathing regular and shallow.

My father died a short time later and I took the box and put it away for safe keeping. I knew the treasures it held.







Years later I went to Italy and I met my father's sister, Emma.

My aunt, a gentle and peaceful woman, lives in a small ancient village in the mountains in northern Italy, close to the village, and the house, where she grew up.

"I'm so happy that you made a trip to meet me," she said my first night there. "It's wonderful that you want to know about your family. She had denim-blue eyes that are surrounded by lines that tell of a hard life, a life of struggle, but also a life of abundant laughter as well. She has worked hard all of her life and her hands are strong, but when she hugged me, or touched my hand, I felt the gentleness within them.

On my second night there I sat with her at the kitchen table. Her daughter, Nicolette, translated for us. I took the wooden box from my suitcase and placed it on the table. Her eyes twinkled when she saw what the box contained. She picked up the picture of the ten-year-old girl with the white dress and ribbon in her hair. She smiled.

"My church Confirmation," she said through her daughter. I smiled at her and nodded.

Sorrow flowed into her eyes when she saw the boy in shorts—Gino. She lovingly placed the picture back in the box and closed her eyes briefly. A short prayer for her brother? I watched her immediate reaction when she picked up the picture of her mother. Her soft eyes filled with tears, her small hands trembled. I watched as she, with shaking fingers, formed the sign of the cross on her chest.

"Mia momma," she whispered. She held the picture to her breast.

The next few days were happy ones. Each day we looked at some of the pictures on the box. When she picked up the picture of the house where she and my father had grown up, she asked if I'd like to visit it. Of course I did.

The next day we went to the little village where my father grew up. The village is ancient and picturesque. Nestled into the side of a mountain, it over-looks a valley more beautiful than any I had ever seen before.

I stood on the three steps I saw in the picture, the ones that led from the front yard to the street. I took a long emotion filled breath and took in the sights, sounds, and aroma of my father's boyhood home. I pictured my father walking down these same three steps, the beginning of his journey to America.

My last night in Italy, I sat with my aunt again, the box of pictures sat on the table in front of us. I pushed it to her. Her eyes grew wide and warm, I could see how much she valued the gift. She held it to her breast, a gentle but protective hug.

"Per lei, Zia Emma." I wanted her to know for sure the box was hers.

"Grazie, Grazie," my aunt responded, her face becoming wet with tears.

As I watched my aunt tentatively raise the lid on the box of pictures, her lower lip trembling, her liquid eyes now lighter, I understood that the treasures contained in the wooden box belonged to her. All of those pictures belonged to her. They were her past, both happy and sad.

She was the one who recognized the people in the pictures; she knew where the places were where her loved ones stood in the photographs. She was the person who could take you to the open door of the church behind a little blond girl with a ribbon in her hair. I had seen how much those pictures meant to my father and how much they now meant to my aunt. The photographs were now her treasures.

Watching her cradle the box of photographs protectively I came to the realization that now it was my turn to fill a box with pictures. Pictures that would someday become a treasure to someone.

Maybe even someone not yet born.







Word Count 1880