“Embrace this new beginning. I want it,” I urge my father, who is visibly anxious. “Say it out loud.”
“This is a new life. I want it,” he echoes, though his voice trembles with uncertainty.
It’s the night before his significant move from New Jersey to Long Island, allowing him to be closer to us. Despite his previous enthusiasm, stress radiates off him like static electricity.
The doorbell rings repeatedly, breaking our moment. It’s my partner and our two younger sons, just back from the park. My youngest peeks through the window, his wide grin and curly hair spilling out from beneath his helmet. He’s been practicing on his new roller skates. I open the door and put a finger to my lips. He nods, still beaming, before awkwardly shuffling towards me for a hug that lifts my spirits.
Weeks ago, I had requested that Dad fill just one box with books or tapes he couldn’t part with—a challenge for someone who struggles with hoarding.
“Can I have three boxes?” he negotiates.
“Let’s start with one,” I reply.
“How about five? Can I take five?”
“Probably, but let’s see you fill one first.”
Instead of packing, he spent his time trying to negotiate the number of boxes he could take while sorting through items to donate. Now, on the eve of his move, he hasn’t filled even one box. But honestly, it doesn’t bother me. His current space is a chaotic mess; taking too much will only turn his new home into another cluttered environment.
“Dad, you don’t need all that stuff. Let’s make a fresh start.”
“But collecting these things is all I’ve achieved. It might seem trivial, but it matters,” he responds, reflecting both regret and clarity.
“You’ll discover new things that hold value,” I assure him, glancing outside where my middle son and partner toss a ball back and forth on our overgrown lawn as daylight fades. My son leaps back to catch a high pop-up just as the last rays of sun dip below the horizon.
“I need to find purpose. I feel lost. And packing these boxes…it’s just too painful,” he admits.
“I understand,” I console, surprised by my own calmness amidst the chaos of the past weeks. Juggling phone calls with social services, doctors, and elderly care advocates had taken a toll on me, leaving me stressed and worn.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got new things waiting for you. You’ll have everything you need,” I say, passing the room where my oldest son practices his haftarah for his bar mitzvah. His melodic voice fills the air with such beauty that it nearly brings me to tears.
“This is a new life,” Dad repeats our mantra, “I want it.”
As I take in the love surrounding me, I realize if this doesn’t ignite joy within him, I’m not sure what will.
“Great,” I confirm. “Because tomorrow, it all begins…”
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