My dad said he bought this chest from a street merchant in Vietnam. He was told it was handcrafted from locally-sourced wood, and the intricate design was done by the shopkeeper's grandfather. His grandfather's vision was mostly gone, but woodwork was mostly muscle memory. My dad was told that it is a Vietnamese belief that carrying a sm…
My dad said he bought this chest from a street merchant in Vietnam. He was told it was handcrafted from locally-sourced wood, and the intricate design was done by the shopkeeper's grandfather. His grandfather's vision was mostly gone, but woodwork was mostly muscle memory. My dad was told that it is a Vietnamese belief that carrying a small chest with you will keep you and your secrets safe. My dad had a lot of secrets. One of those secrets sent him home early from the Vietnam War. But he was able to bring the small chest home, along with his newfound addiction to cocaine.
My dad had a lot of secrets. Affairs went into the chest. Relapses went into the chest. Broken promises went into the chest.
My dad told me the story about when he first acquired the chest, many times. Each new apartment he would unpack his few belongings into. Each time I would find the chest on his nightstand and I would ask if I could play with it. Each time, after ignoring his demand that I not play with it, and he found me using it as a casket for my G.I. Joe's. I would once again hear the story.
My dad sold and/or traded most of his possessions in life. His military issued rifle. His jewelry. His family. But he always held onto that chest. He always held onto his secrets.
Now I'm holding onto the chest, and my dad is with the county coroner in his backyard. He had a stroke. I think back on his story. I think back on his secrets. I look around this room that I have no connection to, other than this is where my dad had been sleeping for the last few months, and think about how this goddamn chest is the only constant he and I have ever had. Our only connection.
I wonder if this chest would be big enough to hold his ashes. I open the lid to find there is already a baggie of white powder inside.
My dad had a lot of secrets. And as I gently closed the lid and examined the chest further, I discovered the shopkeeper had a secret as well.
Printed on the bottom of this chest were the family words: Made in China.
My dad said he bought this chest from a street merchant in Vietnam. He was told it was handcrafted from locally-sourced wood, and the intricate design was done by the shopkeeper's grandfather. His grandfather's vision was mostly gone, but woodwork was mostly muscle memory. My dad was told that it is a Vietnamese belief that carrying a small chest with you will keep you and your secrets safe. My dad had a lot of secrets. One of those secrets sent him home early from the Vietnam War. But he was able to bring the small chest home, along with his newfound addiction to cocaine.
My dad had a lot of secrets. Affairs went into the chest. Relapses went into the chest. Broken promises went into the chest.
My dad told me the story about when he first acquired the chest, many times. Each new apartment he would unpack his few belongings into. Each time I would find the chest on his nightstand and I would ask if I could play with it. Each time, after ignoring his demand that I not play with it, and he found me using it as a casket for my G.I. Joe's. I would once again hear the story.
My dad sold and/or traded most of his possessions in life. His military issued rifle. His jewelry. His family. But he always held onto that chest. He always held onto his secrets.
Now I'm holding onto the chest, and my dad is with the county coroner in his backyard. He had a stroke. I think back on his story. I think back on his secrets. I look around this room that I have no connection to, other than this is where my dad had been sleeping for the last few months, and think about how this goddamn chest is the only constant he and I have ever had. Our only connection.
I wonder if this chest would be big enough to hold his ashes. I open the lid to find there is already a baggie of white powder inside.
My dad had a lot of secrets. And as I gently closed the lid and examined the chest further, I discovered the shopkeeper had a secret as well.
Printed on the bottom of this chest were the family words: Made in China.
Good stuff.