Daddy’s diary
Randy couldn’t believe what he saw. It was like he entered some ‘time tunnel’ into the past! Everything inside the house was exactly as he remembered it some twenty years ago. Time seemed to have forgotten to visit the place. But this was only because of mom.
He entered the living room. His five children started rushing excitedly into the place and jumping into the sofas. The room was filled with the sound of the creaking joints and springs that harmoniously blended with the rasping window blinds that his mother raised to let in more light.
“I’m glad the kids feel sooo at home,” she said and embraced Randy.
“Mom, I can’t believe how this place is still the same place I saw it when I left for abroad.”
“Of course, there are some things that don’t change. And sometimes it’s better that way, because they help us to remember and mature in new things through old memories.”
“Daddy, can we open our gifts now?” Sandra, Randy’s eldest daughter asked.
“Go ahead,” their grandmother butted in. “In this house, you can do whatever you please, children!”
The children cheered their grandmother and gathered under the Christmas tree to open their gifts.
“You really didn’t have to, mom,” said Randy, kissing her.
“Hey, mother’s never retire and more now when after you’ve initiated me into ‘grandmotherhood some twelve years ago,’” she quipped. “‘Sides, they’re not expensive gifts. I’m sure you will recognize that I’ve made them all through my spare time.”
“Mom… [SIGH] you’ve never changed.”
“You should think yourself lucky I haven’t change, dear.”
“No…, I meant…!”
“Hush… the past is the past. Let’s now leave that all behind. Let’s see what someone had in mind for the future?”
“Future? Who?”
“Someone you know quite well, but not yet too well to discover his surprises for you and your siblings.”
“You mean, dad?”
“Who else?”
“But surely, you don’t mean he saw this day….”
“Perhaps, not. But that dad of yours… I must say…he may not have thought about everything, but only what mattered.”
“…only what mattered? I don’t exactly get you, mom.”
“Let’s put it simply: he left you, the eldest child, his diary.”
“Dad? Our mean, tough and rough dad had a diary?”
“Uhuh… Now who’s surprised?” his mom giggled with amusement.
“That is a surprise! I didn’t know dad could write. And if ever, I wonder what he could have written about such an ordinary family like ours.” Randy was completely bewildered.
“No he didn’t,” his mother said. “He was MR. ACTION TRACTION and FIX-IT ALL I CAN. But he wrote an entirely different diary.”
She led Randy into her bedroom and pointed at a solitary wooden chest.
“Open it, Randy.”
Randy opened it. A gentle musty odor fills the room. He sees a number of carefully wrapped and packed objects. None of them looked interesting, but as he examined them closer they ignited memories in his mind.
He pulled out a box that had a label: SNOW BOX: RANDY.
“Snow box?”
“Oh, don’t you remember? You were four or five then when you came in with a box of snowballs? You were so eager to store them somewhere inside, hoping to save them for the following year.”
“Did I…? That’s crazy…!”
“It was crazy then and when the snowballs melted you literally soaked the entire living room and kitchen.”
“What did dad do?”
“I don’t exactly remember. But he took the box and told you that he would take of it. I guess you just forgot about it afterwards.”
“And he kept the box? What for?”
“He told me, that the ‘snow box’ reminded him that nothing in life is permanent, but despite that we have to continue hoping and loving because these ones last.”
“MUSIC SHELL: SHIELA…,” Randy read off another label.
“That’s a winner!” his mom laughed.
“What did Shiela do, mom?”
“Your sister was more deaf tone than a rock. But after watching the Little Mermaid, she found herself that shell, and strung it around her neck and hoped that one day she would have a voice like a mermaid.”
“Really?”
“Yeees, really! But more than the shell, it was dad who encouraged her onwards. And now your sister can sing like a nightingale.”
“SLEEPING PINWHEEL: RUSTY.”
“That’s easy. But I think you were already in college when your pop made that pinwheel for Rusty. Your little brother had trouble sleeping. Dad sat by his beside and told him stories.”
“Stories? How come he never told me any?”
“Short-term memory, son? In those early years dad couldn’t have told you stories, he was down at the construction yard earning his keep. But he always peeked into your room every night he arrived.”
“And the pinwheel?”
“Rusty had bad dreams. Dad said he shouldn’t be afraid. If the bad dreams came, the pinwheel would just blow them away.”
“I didn’t know dad had such a wild imagination. And all these other things are supposed to be his ‘diary’?”
“Yes. Every object there reminded him about something special in each one of you. And each Christmas, when we were both alone in our room, he unwrapped them and recounted the story about each item. We spent hours laughing and enjoying our blessings through all of them.”
“He never even….”
“…told you about it?”
“Yeh….”
“You know how your dad was a very simple and reserved man. But he was always there when you needed him. And this is his diary, written with both hands and heart.”
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Do you have a diary?”
“Nope, but I wrote the labels,” she smiled.
