“This is a new beginning. I truly want this,” I tell my dad, who is visibly anxious. “Now, say it,” I nudge him gently.
“This is a new beginning. I truly want this,” he echoes back, though he still seems frazzled.
It’s the night before his significant move from New Jersey to Long Island, making it easier for us to be together. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, anxiety radiates from him like the prickly hairs on a caterpillar. The tension in the air is almost tangible.
Just then, the doorbell rings repeatedly, cutting through our moment. It’s my husband and our two younger boys returning from the park. My youngest peeks through the window, his bright smile stretching wider than the curly hair spilling out from under his helmet. He’s been testing out his new roller skates! I open the door and place a finger to my lips. He nods, still grinning, then clumsily shuffles over to me for a hug, all while trying to maintain balance.
A few weeks back, I had asked my dad to choose just one box of his favorite books or tapes—not a simple feat for someone who hoards.
“Can I have three boxes?” he negotiates.
“Yes, but let’s begin with one,” I reply.
“How about five? Can I have five boxes?”
“Maybe, but let’s see you fill one first.”
However, instead of packing, he spent those weeks negotiating box numbers and figuring out what to donate. Now, on the eve of his move, he hasn’t managed to fill even one box. But honestly, that doesn’t bother me much. His place is a chaotic mess, and the more he takes, the quicker this new place will turn into a cluttered disaster.
“Dad, you don’t need all that stuff anymore. Let’s start anew,” I encourage him.
“But collecting these things is my only achievement. I know it’s trivial, but it means something to me,” he responds, sounding both regretful and surprisingly rational.
“You’ll discover new things that will matter,” I reassure him, glancing out the window at my husband and middle son tossing a ball in the fading light of day. My son leaps back to catch a high pop-up just as the last rays of sun disappear.
“I need to find my purpose. I feel so lost,” he says sadly. “Filling these boxes is just too hard. It’s too painful.”
“I understand,” I reply, surprised by my own calm. The past few weeks have been overwhelming as I gained weight, sprouted gray hairs, and dealt with cold sores while coordinating with social services, doctors, and advocates for the elderly. We were taking a leap of faith without a safety net.
“Don’t worry! I’ve bought you all new essentials. You’ll have everything you need,” I say, walking past the room where my oldest son practices his haftarah for his bar mitzvah. His voice fills the air with beauty and hope, almost bringing me to tears.
“This is a new beginning,” my dad repeats the mantra once more, “I truly want this.” I look around at the love surrounding me and think that if this doesn’t bring him joy, nothing will.
“Good,” I affirm. “Because tomorrow it all starts…”