Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [112]
She stands looking at the box of letters stored up in the rafters. She desperately wants to read every single one and just as desperately wants to wait as long as possible to read the first sentence. She can feel the promise of his voice in those letters and she also feels a terrible foreboding that reading them will be the end of something; that reading them now, too soon, will diminish the power she is sure they hold.
Finally, she climbs up to get them. She grabs a folding chair and sits quietly for a long time. Her father is trapped inside boxes everywhere right now, except here in his workshop and in the house, in his closet. How soon before her mother cleans out the closet and gives away his clothes? How soon until Angie wants to turn the workshop back into a garage? Maybe Alice is going to have to learn how to use all of these power tools, learn how to make things and repair things, to justify keeping this workshop just the way it is. Who can teach her, she wonders? Maybe she could work with a carpenter this summer, like an apprentice, like being on the roof with her dad. And in that thought, she thinks, there is the echo of Matt’s voice.
She lifts off the top of the box, flips through the letters. The big events he wrote about haven’t happened yet, graduations and a wedding and losing her mother. So she looks through the series of letters with the heading, “the little moments that make up the big moments that might get forgotten.” The first one, “the moment you realize you want this boy to kiss you” seems just right. She opens it and begins to read:
Dear Alice,
Okay, you’re not going to need my help with this one. Lots of boys are going to want to kiss you. Trust me on this. Obviously, you’ll figure out who you want to kiss and who you don’t want to kiss. But when a boy is kissing you, maybe for the first time, maybe not, other things start to happen. I don’t think I have to be too graphic here.
Just remember, he can’t help it.
Love,
Dad
Alice laughs. Her father is writing to her about kissing and also more than kissing and he’s funny; she forgot how funny he is. Maybe one of these letters includes his manual on farting and all the special names he has for different kinds of farts: frips and gribbles and spilbers.
He’s funny, she remembers with relief. He was funny and full of life and loved to work hard and get dirty and eat ice cream and play baseball and play with his kids. She remembers his patience those spring twilights playing catch with her and with Henry, the endless pitches to Henry for batting practice, his patience with her in the garden, in the workshop, his delight in teaching her things. Did she really like to garden or did she like to elicit that delight in her father? Does it matter? He was so easy to please. Stand up straight, tell the truth, do your best.
She sees a letter she doesn’t remember noticing before: “Dad’s words to live by,” and opens it right up. Just exactly what she was thinking about.
Dear Alice,
Cogitate on this list when you’re in the mood, but not too much and not too often. You know all of this already; these are just little reminders. These are probably the things that my father or my mother said to me; there’s nothing original here. But most if not all of these ideas have stood the test of time.
In his perfect block printing, here it is, his list:
Cultivate gratitude.
Think for yourself.
Treat all people equally.
Respect your body.
Don’t be afraid to ask questions.
Ask for help when you need it.
Be your own best friend.
Don’t be afraid to fail.
Do one thing at a time.
Learn how to dance.
Write thank-you notes.
Good manners never go out of style.
Treat your family and your friends like gold.
Give more than you receive.
Aim high.
If she closes her eyes, she can hear him, in each of these words and phrases, she can hear him.
June 19th
School has ended. Alice kept up with classes,