My Father’s Boxes
by Laura Plummer

In the basement is a shelf of identical cardboard boxes labeled in my father’s heavy, slanted writing. This is his system for categorizing his universe. Boxes of cables and wires, antique watch parts, electronics, family history. Of vintage cameras, pocket knives and other flea market finds. As a child, these boxes fascinate me. I pull them down, one by one, looking for treasures to show my friends.

My father has another set of boxes, too, one I’m not so proud to show off. He keeps them in the recesses of his psyche, boxes for every conceivable “type” of person. One for every age, nationality, race, religion and class. Women, Asians, gays, Jews, the rich, and the elderly are comfortably nestled in their separate containers. Boxes he inherited from his own father. Boxes he will try to pass down to me.

His boxes will become my inheritance. When he’s gone, I’ll sit on the cold concrete and comb through their contents. A lifetime of buttons and biases. Postage stamps and prejudice. Seashells and stereotypes. I may be a child, but I have already decided what I will add to my own boxes and what I cannot in good conscience preserve. Some legacies are meant to die.

Laura Plummer is an American writer from Massachusetts. Her work has been featured in numerous print and online publications, including The Sun and Chicken Soup for the Soul. Read more at lauraplummer.me.