The Time Capsule

The writing of and idea process of this story all started today:

On my fourth birthday my father sat down and told me a story. When he was a kid he collected baseball cards. Only the Topps brand; that was all there was in those days and he stayed loyal through my childhood as well. He spent nearly every dime of his allowance and work money from ages 4 through 14 on baseball cards. He had two Mickey Mantles, a 1961 Roger Marris, and a Jackie Robinson rookie card. His card collection was the envy of every boy who lived in Windsong Manor.

Then he left for college. When he came home a certain box was missing from his room. He checked closets, the basement, and the attic before inquiring with his mother where his baseball card collection may be hiding. Evidently it was hiding under piles of garbage at the local dump. His mother had thrown away his prized possession, never understanding what it was worth.

If that collection existed today, instead of still owing money on my in-state, public college education I would be driving a BMW. With no car payments.

This story became my birthday story. Every birthday from 4 until my father passed away when I was 19, I heard that story on my birthday. It was to remind me of a simple task my father and I shared when he first told me that story. A task I remember more because I have been told about it than I remember because I remember. My dad and I created a time capsule.

This time capsule was to be opened on my twenty-fourth birthday. It was buried immediately behind the basketball goal in our front yard. It consisted of a metal box and one item. This item was the most precious thing in my life when I was 4. By the time I was 5 I had forgotten what the item was. By my twentieth birthday I no longer cared about the story.

My mother passed away when I was 13. It turns out there was no danger of my prized possessions being tossed out by her. Instead, my childhood was poisoned by the images of her fighting a losing battle with breast cancer. My fourteenth birthday saw me as a troubled and angry young man who was lost and confused, unless I was next door at the Shepherd's house.

The Shepherd's had pool, ping pong, swimming, the newest video game systems, and my best-friend Casey. Casey and I played every sport imaginable together and were nearly inseparable. The only reason to come to my house was to play basketball.

My fourteenth birthday came and my dad got home from work early. Casey and I were playing one-on-one. Casey was winning. My dad started in on his yearly story and I told him to "fuck off." Next came the worst thing that ever happened to me. Not the fight with my father. That was normal at that time, but when it ended Casey was gone. In fact, Casey refused to speak to me again until I began to shape up my life. Unfortunately, that would take eight more years.

When I was nineteen, just weeks after my birthday and another year of ignoring dad's story, my father was killed by a drunk driver. I did not shed a tear. I had built up such a wall of hatred that no more emotion could get through. I returned to college and jumped right back into normal life. Normal life consisting of drinking enough to black out six or seven nights a week.

At college I would see Casey from time to time. We ran in different circles. Sometimes I thought I saw a look in Casey's eye that showed jealousy and sadness. I was half right, it was sadness and pity. If we were ever home at the same time, we pretended like we were strangers.

My senior year of college saw me teetering on the edge of expulsion. It also saw me arrested for my second DUI. I was saved jail due to my sob story of losing both parents. That and a phenomenal lawyer. And the condition I attend rehab. I was twenty-two, no family, and in rehab. I spent most of the first week crying. My lawyer was the only person who visited me.

The next week I actually tried to sober up. My lawyer visited again, made note of my changed attitude for the judge, and told me another visitor was coming in a few days. Two days later Casey showed up. We talked about life and my problems and how I was pledging to make it right. Casey promised to help if I wanted help. I did. Casey became my unofficial AA sponsor.

My twenty-fourth birthday was day 503 sober. That seemed like the best gift I could ever receive. I had graduated one year late and enrolled in graduate program for psychology. Casey and I found time to play sports together again. Then the silence that replaced my father's annual story flowed through my ears.

I cried for over an hour. I found a bottle of whiskey in my house. I stared at it, hoping it would tell me the story my dad had for so many years. I called Casey. No answer. Left a message of tears, the only audible words being "dad", "alcohol", and "birthday". I poured myself a drink and put it to my lips.

Only then, with the smell of the liquor in my nostrils, did I remember when I was supposed to open the time capsule. I put down the drink, picked up a shovel, and ran outside. The box was open and in my hands five minutes later. The tears streamed down my face as I saw what was the most important thing in my life when I was 4. It was the same thing that was the most important in my life now, only I had never realized. I had thrown it all away for so long.

In my time capsule was a picture of Casey and me.

I ran next door, crying, holding the photo. I didn't even knock. When I threw the door open I heard a gasp then "SURPRISE!" Casey and her family, a few assorted friends, and a banner that read "Happy 24th Birthday Luke". I had ruined my surprise party.

I walked over to Casey. "Remember my time capsule?" I asked. Casey nodded. I placed the photo in her hand. She looked at me and I kissed her. For the first time since my mother was diagnosed with cancer I felt alive.

I remember all of this and wipe a tear from my eyes. The water mixes with the dirt on my hands and leaves a muddy smudge across my cheek.

"Daddy, why are you sad?" my son asks while patting the dirt on top of his new time capsule.

With a laugh I reply "I'll tell you in twenty years."