A few years ago, a friend suggested a book to me. This is a common occurence when you work in publishing - book people traffic in books like I would imagine fruit people traffic in fruit. You read something you like, you pass it on to a friend.
The book is called Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. I am a not a history buff or someone who reads a lot about wars. My tastes in book run more to fictional diversions and non-fiction fads. In his book, O'Brien tells the story of a group of soldiers through the things they carried with them during their tour in Vietnam. It is a deceptively simple and surprisely moving piece of writing that transcends the period he wrote it in, while at the same time capturing the essence of that experience for many who were there.
I thought a lot about this book this past week as my sister, my brother and I cleaned out my dad's apartment. This was holy work, as my beloved wife observed, a time to inhabit someone else's skin or home or effects.
It took us just a few days to box up his stuff, taking care to note who gets what. That does not seem long enough for a person who lived 80 years. It should take much longer to catalog all that cared about, all of his passions and joys, all the pain and sorrow that he carried. I left before the boxes were placed in my sister's van or my nephew's truck.
My dad's apartment sits empty tonight, just seven days after he passed. He carried so much with him, things that I am just starting to learn about.
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