The Tale Of 'That' Treasure Chest

I don't normally write consecutive posts quite so close together, however a little while back, I promised you all I'd share the story of my beloved keepsake chest 'one day'. This evening, on the fourth anniversary of my Dad's passing, I figured it was a fitting day to write about it...

I can clearly remember my seventeenth birthday.  Several weeks before it, I had stumbled across a cute, metal treasure chest of my Dad’s.  With its smooth rounded top, studded detailing and simple design, I fell in love with it immediately, begging Dad to let me have it.  He refused and a battle erupted between us.  In true self-absorbed teenage fashion, I couldn’t fathom his unreasonableness and viewed his stance as stubborn.  Not one to express his feelings in those days or to share with me just how precious that box was to him and why, we found ourselves at loggerheads and didn’t talk for a week. 

It wasn’t until years later that I discovered my Pop had made that lovely chest by hand.  It safely held his Dutch war medals, the ribbon from his navy hat and the intricate buttons from his uniform, pieces so very precious to my Dad having lost his father at the age of fifty (when he himself was still very much a boy at only eighteen).  That keepsake box was special to him because of the memories it contained and the connection it held to a loved one lost far too early.

And so it is that years later, history has repeated itself and the same treasure chest has found its way into my possession, the war memorabilia it held having since been passed on to my aunty.  When my Dad passed away on this day four years ago, and we later began the heartbreaking task of sorting through his possessions, the one thing I wanted to inherit more than anything was that treasure box.  Not because I still longed for it the way I did as a seventeen year old, but because I now understood… I understood all that it symbolised and why my Dad had been so unwilling to part with it.  I knew he would want me to have it.  

Sitting on the bookshelf in our living room, today it holds my keepsakes of my own Dad’s…the key ring he carried with him every day, an East Fremantle Football Club pin, a few of his rings and several of his dinky cars (collectibles by now I’m sure but purely sentimental to me). 

Every day, I walk past that much coveted and much admired treasure chest, feeling the cruel irony that after our battle way back in my teenage years, I can now say it is mine. 

Today, I’d trade a thousand of those chests, if only I could have my dear Dad here with me again…

Today is the fourth anniversary of my Dad’s passing, a day which I carry with a heavier heart than previous years, 

harder now that more and more has happened in my life that my Dad has sadly missed out on being a part of…
One of my favourite posts I've ever written was the one from this day last year, where I shared what happened on the day my Dad died -
it somehow captured how deeply I miss him, how much he was loved and my effort to live a life he'd be proud of...