Cigar Box
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Posted by PostMortemCreamPi on: 07:19 PM, 01/19/20
        My father wasn't in my life for long, not to say he left, simply that he passed while I was still young. The memories I do have of the man are fond, he was a kind man, never really getting physical or using harsh words. The most I can recall was a quick and stern "stop that" with an explination as to why I shouldn't do something.
   When he passed, not many of  his personal belongings where left to remember him by. The odd picture here and there, being replaced over time with different memories. All that remained was a few nice clothes, in hopes I'd grow into them. His baseball glove that we'd play catch with, left unattended. A wooden cigar box and some unfinished liquors, sitting on the top of the entertainment stand,
   Over time the liquor bottles would get used up in the short months after his passing. The vodka and other expensive bottles saved for holidays and family gatherings. While the cheaper whiskeys disappearing in the short days between his passing, and his burial. Those difficult days turned into long and equally difficult years. Being especially difficult on my mother, as she seemed to never quite get over him.
   She'd become more reclusive over those years, taking an online sales rep job she could do from home. With most family gatherings being my maternal grandparent and the odd visit by an aunt or uncle. The older I grew it only worsened, I wasn't exactly the perfect child any parent would ask for. When I wasn't out in the woods behind the apartments, I was about the town with the other kids I called "friends".  Getting into various amounts of trouble from caught smoking pot behind the local convenience store , to smashing some mail boxes of abandoned homes.
   It wasn't until I was about twenty and my mother left for a weekend to visit her father in the hospital, that the cigar box caught my curiosity. At the time I had been sitting on the couch waiting for a "friend" to bring me a zip. The old wooden box sat atop the entertainment center caught my eye, I'd seen most of my life but never bothered to ask about it. So I went into the kitchen to grab the step ladder from between the fridge and counter.
   Looking over the top shelf, it was caked in nearly a decade and a half worth of dust. Never being dusted and simply used to place loose change that had never been picked back up. The box itself was pushed back near the wall, left to be forgotten. My mother never moved it after these years, or even appeared to have opened it. I figured that perhaps in this small wooden box, was a memento of my fathers for me to keep.
   I took the box with me to the couch while pulling a folding try along with me. I was hesitant to open the thing, it's small size deceptive of it's weight. Carved into the lid was his name, etched in deep with some nice Celtic knot work. I stared at the name, the name we shared, while running my finger through the deep curves of the knots. The loud banging of my front door awakening me from the trance.
   It was my friend with the bag of goodies, so I let him in and we sat back down on the living room couch.
"What's with that cool box?" he asked noticing the cigar box still on the small stand.
"Oh, its just something we've had laying around" I replied trying to dance around the details. "Wanna open it with me?"
   We had sat down and I kept trying to find a way to delay opening the box. I had been curious and wanted to open it, but there was still doubt in my mind. Rolling a blunt and trying to distract him from the fact I'd invited him to open the box with me. Though the idea of rolling a blunt only made him more excited to open the box. I assumed he thought I'd been stashing some weed away in it, when in actuality I had no idea what could have been inside.
   In those short moments that felt to me like an eternity, he had grabbed the box off the tray; sliding the lid off the box. Inside was a small pill bottled labeled for my father and a short snubbed nose revolver. The prescription had read Olanzapine, containing around five or six pills. The revolver on the hand lay loaded. Five shots and one empty casing. I had remembered seeing that gun before.
   It was a long time ago, that the memories where still distant and hazy. I had remembered my parents fighting, Dad had been making a scene after losing his third job that month. Mom was trying to tell him things would get better, and that he needed to keep taking his meds. The most memorable part was a loud thundering boom echoed through the apartment. That was the day my father had committed suicide.