I would tug on the stiffening straps until they were free from their metal buckles, and the struggle to lift the heavy lid was always worth what waited beneath. A shallow wooden tray sat just inside. In it were small black beaded and silk purses, a fox shoulder wrap, an array of hair combs, a small hand held fan, and a pair of long gloves with fabric covered buttons along one side.

The tray could be lifted out to reveal my mother's wedding gown and veil, various papers and photographs, a box with several small pieces of jewelry, and a tiara wrapped in paper. There were also few books, a tiny box with a pocket watch in it, and a dresser set with brush, comb and mirrored tray. The handles on the brush and comb were silver, as was the edge of the tray. The back of the brush and a small part of the comb had mother of pearl inlay.

There may have been other items in the trunk, but these are the ones I remember. Maybe because these were the ones I picked up and "played" with. The purses, combs, fan and some of the jewelry belonged to my great grandmother; the wedding dress, gloves, books, and dresser set belonged to my mother.

From a very young age I entertained myself. My father was in the Air Force and away from home a lot. My mother was kept busy with my younger siblings who had medical problems. I was the oldest, a thinker and dreamer who often retreated into my own world. The trunk was always a happy place for me as it allowed me to be whoever I wanted to be. When I opened it I was swept away to kingdoms with castles, fairylands, and wonders limited only by my imagination. I loved the trunk.

One day I came home from school to find my mother had left for a week, leaving us with a woman who stayed at our home to take care of us. When my mother returned she was quiet and would easily cry. I wanted to know what was wrong, but was afraid to ask, so I tried to keep from doing anything that would make her cry. It was a long time before I returned to my beloved trunk.

One day the trunk seemed to call me, so I eagerly lifted the lid. Retrieving the fox shoulder wrap from the top tray, I sat with my legs folded and put it in my lap. I began to pet it. I didn't want to be a princess or a bride that day. I wanted to talk, to ask what was wrong, and to say if my father came home mom would feel better. I sat there a long time, and then I remembered my father's watch in the lower section of the trunk. Holding it always made me feel close to him.

Taking the tray out of the trunk, I noticed some new items in the lower portion -- a flag folded into a triangle, and a newspaper. I loved reading. It was another way to experience different places and be different people, so I picked up the newspaper. There was a photo of an accident on the front page and I started reading about a flatbed truck that backed out of a sugar beet field just as a car was driving up the highway. The car hit the truck killing the driver. That's when I saw the name of the driver... it was my father.

I stared in disbelief at the name. It couldn't be true! Then the tears came. They flooded my eyes, rolled down my cheeks and left a salty taste in my mouth. I wiped them with my sleeve, but they wouldn't stop. My stomach hurt and I felt a pain I had never felt before. For a moment I hated my mother. Why didn't she tell me? Was this why she was so quiet? Was this why she cried so much? I wanted to go to her. I wanted to ask her so many questions. But, I didn't want to make her cry, so at 8 years old I kept it to myself.

I finally put the newspaper back, replaced the tray and closed the trunk. I never went back to it. My dreams had changed. I now dreamed of seeing my father walking up a hill toward our house in Missouri and running to meet him, of being pushed on a homemade swing in our back yard, and of ice cream and cookies being held out as a peace offering after a spanking. I dreamed of a tall man in an Air Force uniform with sparkling brown eyes and a crooked smile, of hugging him one last time, and of being able to say good-bye.

Years later, as I visited my mother during her battle with cancer, we talked about that time. We talked about things that had happened through the years and we learned a lot about each other. A year after that conversation, my brothers, my sister and I spent much of our time near her bedside during her final battle. I spoke to her about how proud I was of her and how she handled the heartaches that happened in her life. I told her how much I loved her. Finally, I told her that if she was tired of her fight it was ok to let go and go "home". Most important -- I was able to say good-bye.

Susan Stevens
Copyright March 2000

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