BY BRADY KIM
I visited my father’s house last week. I straightened the picture frames on his nightstand, the glass caked with so much grime and filth that you couldn’t even make out the picture. I swept the dust from the lonely halls, the wallpaper cracking and peeling at the top so it cast a shadow across the wall when you turned on the buzzing yellowish lights. Just before turning the old copper doorknob of the squeaky front door, I caught sight of a box that my brother sloppily labelled “toss” with a fading sharpie. I chucked the tattered cardboard box of junk and knick-knacks in the trunk. The chipping, faded olive green paint on the front of the house slowly fell away behind the horizon in my rear-view mirror.
Tonight, I can see the moon from my window. Its icy glow permeates my eyelids so I can’t sleep. Deciding to go on the hunt for a midnight snack, I feel every step against the frigid tile of the kitchen floor. Just as the refrigerator handle is within reach, I spot the box sitting in the corner of the room, condemned to be thrown out. Straining and grunting, I lug it onto the table. A plume of dust kisses my face.
Under the flickering yellow lamp, I sift through old postcards, letters, and books for hours. Maybe my brother was right, he’d scraped the decrepit, creaking house for everything of worth. Then I hesitate for a moment before lifting up a photo album with hundreds of pictures of my father. Didn’t know my father used to have a Vespa. Or nunchucks. Or a perm. As I flip the next laminated page, I’m greeted by “Family” in thick, dark marker strokes.
I watch my father take Mom out for their first date to a Johnny Rockets. Watch his first time cruising in the Toyota four runner that drove me to elementary school every day. I watch him pack moving trucks no less than three times before one arrived in front of a vibrant green house. Watch him break up fights between me and my brother. Watch him force us to hug after reluctantly apologizing to each other. Watch him lounge on the itchy, ratty orange couch that hosted our family movie nights where my sister could never sit still. Watch him teach me to ride a bike, the same neon green one my brother rode before me. Watch him gently pull a warm wool blanket over me and my sister, our heads limply resting on each other.
I watch as his hair thins, grays as the pages turn. I watch him fall in love with the ragdoll cat he never wanted after all his kids had left for college. I watch him pick up calligraphy as a hobby, and watch him forget about it just as fast. I watch as lines on his face turn to wrinkles. I watch him retire from his bike rides along the path near our house, his knees no longer able to keep up with who he once was. I watch as public parks and childhood homes turn to doctors’ offices and hospital beds.
And then the photos stop. Blank page after blank page, I continue to turn. After endless spreads of nothing but the occasional stain or pen mark, I come across a page with two photos. In the first, he sits in a chair, with my grandparents’ gaunt figures looming over him. They look about 40 years younger than I knew them. They stare out of the photo, expressionless, a far cry from the figures that used to spoil me and sneak candies into my palms. My father’s hair is long and combed back. He looks young, immature, human.
The second photo, I sat in the chair. My parents’ faces captured mid-laugh, my sister tugging on my brother’s sleeve. The photo, torn in the corner and packed with dust, emanated a warmth I didn’t know I missed so much. My throat tightens and my hands can barely grip the delicate photo. Dad’s hand on my shoulder, where his father’s once sat on his. His eyes, deep and dark, looked identical to the ones staring down at the page with blurry, wet vision. I slowly close the book and gaze across the room.
The sun’s rays pierce the kitchen window before I know it and I grab a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I call up my brother and sister. Ask what they’re up to on Friday, if they wanna visit Mom. They both chuckle and ask what’s gotten into me. I answered that I figured we could watch some TV. Play a board game. Maybe take a family picture.
Writer | Brady Kim ‘28 | bkim28@amherst.edu
Editor | Sarah Wu ‘25 | sdwu25@amherst.edu