His Father's Passing

Allister's father passed away when he was a young man. Old enough to be considered a man, to be sure. But, too young to be without a father, which seems the feeling of all people who have lost a parent, regardless of age. Allister felt much during this time, but could say very little. His mother and he sat in his parent's living room some days after the funeral. His mother wanted Allister to pick from his father's belongings and take what he wanted, what reminded him of his father. She had, of course, kept the pictures and mementos that mattered to her. But, there was so much and the remainder that Allister and her did not want would be given away to charity. Allister's instincts collected his father's favorite hat and his pipe. But, this was barely his father. Allister was at a loss. He did not want to take much, but he did not want to leave any of it. He wanted to collect the air that his father breathed. He wanted to collect the way he smelled, a hybrid scent of pipe smoke and sweat. A peculiar odor that Allister had mixed feelings for, having always detested smoking. But, now that his father was gone, this was suddenly precious. He wanted to collect sounds his father heard. He wanted to keep his father's laugh and his father's embrace. This would be more his father than a hat and pipe. 

Allister left his mother's house for a moment, a breather. He said nothing. But, his mother needed no words. She understood. When he came back, he brought with him the largest box he could find and packed all that he could into it, filling it with not only objects, but memories and senses that seemed too painful to touch at that moment. He sealed the box and stepped outside and immediately wept. His eyes remained weeping for a full year and everyone, including Allister, wondered if this would be permanent.



On the final hour of the three hundred and sixty fifth day, Allister's tear ducts suddenly went dry. This we know. What is uncertain is where Allister went. He just disappeared. Not a single soul heard nor laid eyes on him for another year. It was as if he had lifted himself from the earth, leaving behind no tracks, no scents. Not knowing what to do, how to understand, he simply disappeared as absolutely as he could. Though we can not say for sure, most people assume that Allister's tear ducts remained dry for the entire year.



At the last hour of that final set of three hundred and sixty five days, Allister arrived at his mother's doorstep as if no time had passed. Once more, no words were spoken. Instead, they embraced. Allister shaved his face and trimmed his hair and then, found the box sitting in the living room as if no time had passed. His first instinct was that he did not want to take anything anymore. None of this would bring his father back. None of this was his father, although all of it was his father's. But, he could not help but open the box one last time before he made a final decision. The flaps opened with ease and the scent of his father filled Allister's nose. Now, whether Allister cried continuously for one year or two is still in debate, but this is known for sure. The moment Allister breathed in from this box, he cried again. 



His hands dug through all the objects, all the senses, all the memories. They pushed through until they reached the pipe and the hat, nestled deep at the bottom. Allister took these and left the remainder of the box. There was a balance, Allister learned. With life, comes death. With laughter, come tears. With the answers, comes more mystery. It is the balance that keeps us in place. It rarely makes sense. But, what can be said for certain, is that none of these are etched in stone. None of these elements last forever. And that includes endings.