The earliest and clearest memory I have of my dad is his gentle hands placing a birthday cake he’d made right in front of my nine-year-old self and a warm smile blooming on his haggard face when I blew the six rainbow candles on it.

It was just me and him.

Dad told me that I once had a mother and a sister, but they both decided to leave one day.

I didn’t mind.

I never cared.

As far as I was concerned, my dad was a superhero who could do anything without ever complaining.

But alas, cancer was the one thing he never managed to beat.

He died a week ago, the day right after I’d proposed to Michael.

I’d visited him in the hospital and we’d had a blast just celebrating together and imagining what the future could hold for us.

I don’t know how, but I guess we both knew deep down that night was it.

By “it”, I mean the final moment where the both of us could be truly and blissfully happy together.

All that was left was for things to go downhill.

And downhill they went.

He flatlined the next day.

One of the best days of my life was followed by inarguably the worst.

I admit that I did become a shell of my former self, however functional I may have seemed to outsiders.

I just…wasn’t all there, if you get what I mean.

I still cooked, I still worked, I still fucked, and I still slept, but I felt detached from it all.

Like a sponge that, although submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, didn’t dare absorb a single drop of water, despite the massive force of the sea upon it.

Michael was starting to get worried, because even though my shell was perfect, he could tell that something was wrong with my insides.

A week went by like this.

A week where all I thought was that my father, my hero, had passed away, be it while I typed, stirred, or moaned.

I realized just what an integral part of me he had been, someone who’d always been by my side to help me if trouble – any trouble – ever hit. I felt vulnerable, the umbrella that protected me for even the mightiest of overhead rain storms now gone and buried.

And all I could think about was when the next cloudburst of unforgiving rain would occur.

The colors around me were so dull they might as well have been monochrome.

That one week after his death was, without a doubt, one of the lowest points in my life, if not THE lowest.

But then I got a letter.

A letter that changed everything.

A letter that awoke my shell shocked self, believe it or not, and allowed me to come out of my self-constructed prison.

In front of our mailbox, my hands found themselves holding a letter which saturated my surroundings with all of the emotions I had been unconsciously holding in like the carrier of some disease, infecting everyone and everything in my immediate vicinity.

It was a letter from my father.

The handwriting under the stamp was unmistakable.

With fingers that trembled as though they found themselves in the middle of a barren arctic wasteland, I managed to open the thing without outright shredding it to pieces and read what my father had written.

​

​

Dear Spencer,

If you’re reading this, well, that means that I’m dead.

I didn’t make it through.

I’m sorry for leaving you alone just when you were ready to become an adult. It's poetic in a sense, but I still wish I could have been around to see the man you would have become for the sake of those closest to you.

For that, I am truly sorry, and I will gladly tell God or the Devil that leaving you behind is my greatest regret.

I can’t imagine what it’s been like, so I’ve prepared a little something for you.

A treasure hunt.

Just like the ones I would always prepare for your birthdays until you “got too old for them” as you told me when you were thirteen.

I hope that you will be able to find closure in these.

Love, Dad

​

​

Below this loving note was an address.

Well, not so much an address as per se a location scribbled in thick and bold ink.

​

Chuck E. Cheese, Men’s stall, Third stall Tank

​

You might be wondering why this is relevant, me visiting a Chuck E. Cheese.

Well, as it happened, my dad had booked a fancy restaurant for the two of us when I graduated Summa Cum Laude from my law school, but the reservation fell through, and all we had available was the local Chuck E. Cheese. Believe it or not, we really did have fun there, and it stands tall in my mind as one of my fondest memories.

Anyhow, the only employee in that particular Chuck E. Cheese on the particular time on that particular day when I went was a teenage girl. She only spared me a lazy gaze before refocusing her attention back to the factorials she was busy solving in her notebook.

Michael was still at work, and I knew I was going behind his back without telling him what I was up to, but I couldn’t care less about that.

I entered the restroom and went over to the third stall, trying to pay the foul odor no mind.

I raised the lid of that tank using the sleeve of my long jacket and I found a plastic bag bobbing about in there.

Inside the bag, I found another note along with a handful of Chuck E. Cheese winner tickets.

The second note read as follows:

​

​

Dear Spencer,

I hope this isn’t weird.

Christ, what am I even saying?

You’re probably reading this in the stall of a children’s restaurant for God’s sake.

Well, I’m sorry you had to come here (not least because of the horrendous number of germs that coat this place), but please think of this as a nice trip down memory lane.

You remember, don’t you?

I’d booked a table at that expensive French restaurant, just for the two of us, dipping into my pension fund just for this special occasion. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. On the contrary, I didn’t mind paying even twice as much if it meant we could reflect together over a nice glass of champagne and some good old-fashioned snails the wondrous life we’d had which had guided us to that one moment.

But some rich bastard out-paid my reservation and it was more than gone.

It was lost.

I remember feeling disappointed, even more so when you told me it was no big deal. I felt ashamed, and I remember feeling an empty sadness inside of me as we drove down that highway at night.

But then your eyes spotted the very Chuck E. Cheese you found this note in, the very same one I would take you to when you were too young to be affected by the germs of others. I scoffed at your proposal to dine there, but I relented for your sake.

Believe me when I say that I will forever hold that night, where it was just the two in our best tuxedos and playing silly games, as one of the few memories that orbits around my old heart.

I would have rather had snails, but misshapen pizzas were about as good, if not better.

By all means, it was a stupid idea, but it made for a stupendous night that I will never forget. Thank you, Spencer, for giving me the best night of my life.

You are truly my son, and I love you very much.

​

​

I was startled out of my intense trance by the young girl I’d come across earlier walking into the bathroom.

I can't imagine how awkward of a situation that must’ve been for her – walking into the men’s stall and finding a grown man crying while holding a note.

She, understandably, asked if I was alright, and I said I was.

I walked out of that filthy place and tipped her my lucky two-dollar bill and apologized for the inconvenience I had caused.

I wonder why I did that, but it felt like the right thing to do at that moment.

I still feel Chuck’s dead animatronic eyes on my back, burrowing through my now tired lungs just as deep as the day I left, but I digress.

At the end of the second letter, there was another address, scribbled in thick black ink just like the last one.

​

Park, second volleyball court, under the third board

​

For context, the local park in my city has these shitty volleyball courts with bases that have the worst wooden flooring imaginable. Out of the four volleyball courts, we almost never played on the second because there was this one board that always moved. Let’s just say that your chances of falling on your ass as you were about to return a serve increased exponentially if you happened to be playing on that particular side of that particular court.

Anyhow, it was just after lunch when I arrived. The only people to be seen were senior citizens and a few joggers.

It was the middle of work hours on a weekday after all.

I stepped on the creaky court and dug my nervous fingers under that particular board.

There, I found exactly what I thought I would find.

Yet another plastic zip bag with more things inside.

I sat on one of the nearby benches (the only one under the shade of a tree) and read the newest note.

​

​

Dear Spencer,

You may or may not be wondering why you’ve found yourself here, but I’ll get to the point, so please hold your horses.

I still remember the day you introduced me to Michael.

Well…the day you told me he existed, so to speak.

Over text, no less.

I’ll admit that it wasn’t the easiest thing to process, especially since you’d kept your sexuality from me for so long.

My silence over those two immediate days was not a direct result of any contempt or disgust or anything like that.

It was a result of me reflecting long and hard on myself.

I looked back on every moment I’d spend with you, and wondered just how I’d missed something like this.

On a lighter note, your disaster date with Sarah Aberdeen did finally make a lot more sense.

But if I’m being honest, most of that time was spent thinking about my own upbringing as an Orthodox Christian.

When you, my son, finally broke my silence with an invite to meet Michael and you at the very park where you found this letter, I would be lying if I wrote that I jumped at the chance.

I felt nervous, as you can expect, and I hope I didn’t give too strong of a bad impression.

Michael was really nice, but I’m sure that both of you noticed my equally shifty and stiff behavior. I saw how embarrassed you looked, and I admit, that didn’t calm my nerves any less. I also started to feel embarrassed, and imagined all of our good times spent together unraveling just because of this.

But then we just happened to be passing by those volleyball courts.

At that moment, I got the strongest impression that you were about to take Michael away and go somewhere else, and that’s why I blurted out so suddenly that we should play a game or two. It’s also why I bought that expensive as hell volleyball at the stand nearby.

I don’t know why, but the mood did seem to lighten as we all played and took turns falling on our asses from that board that we could just never avoid.

I also admit that after I stopped laughing, I had forgotten about my earlier misgivings. The hot dogs we all ate afterwards might’ve tasted like crap, but the honest conversation we all had while doing so certainly wasn’t anything like them.

It might’ve been cheesy for me to say that I accepted you for who you were and told Michael to take good care of you, but by all means, it didn’t feel right to just end things there without me addressing the elephant I had brought along.

I realized it must’ve taken a lot of guts to come clean to me then, especially since you had known for so long. I can’t imagine what kind of thoughts you’d had beforehand, or how many nights you spent without sleeping wondering about me. For that, my son, I am truly sorry.

I wish you and Michael the best wedding possible, and I would like to apologize.

I would like to apologize because death won’t allow me to ever say any of what I’ve said in this note while standing besides you and him, to all the guests, and telling all of them that I am proud to be your father.

I love you son, and that’s why I accept you.

All the best, Dad.

​

​

My eyes were almost too watery to notice the next address.

All I could do was take the volleyball I had found along with the note inside of the plastic bag with me as I headed back to my car.

​

High School, Football field, Owl hole

​

My high school graduation.

Of course.

If you’re wondering just what the hell my dad meant by owl hole, you should know that my high school has a very strange football field.

Back in the seventies, they tried to finance a new football field, but there was one problem: there was a huge oak tree right in the middle of the planned site.

The dean at the time wouldn’t budge and wanted them to cut down the tree – a tree with a stump that had a circumference of well over five meters mind you.

The local student population (and I do mean everyone, not just those who were considered hippies) gathered in protest after catching wind of this. The whole town was thrown into an uproar and everyone started to protest, as apparently, the tree had been planted by the first Puritans who had migrated to that area and was well over four hundred years of age. The tree itself was declared a Heritage one and with that, the project was canceled.

Me and my dad always visited that tree, where so many people would have all sorts of picnics and which also happened to be the place of all my high school’s graduations.

On the fifth branch of this tree, ten meters off the ground, there was a hole in it.

An owl’s nest, I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, one that me and my dad always checked for any owls whenever we sat there together (but, much to my disappointment, we never found any).

The sun was very slowly starting to set. It wasn’t actually, but I got that feeling. The feeling you get when you just know beyond a shadow of a doubt that something is about to happen, but can’t stop it.

Being dressed in casual attire made climbing the damn thing that much easier, and I soon found myself sitting on the very bark that my ass had slowly eroded over the years.

The view that greeted me was one that smashed a wave of nostalgia right into my face.

Besides me was the owl hole where yet another plastic zip bag sat patiently.

Inside the bag I found another note, but what caught the attention of my (now) red eyes was the orange plastic pill bottle that my right hand also pulled out of it.

From what I could tell, it was full and looked as though it had never been used before.

The note from the tree said the following:

​

​

Dear Spencer,

Forgive me for the shitty handwriting that I know this letter will be covered in, but my hand isn’t what it used to be. I lied when you visited after work with Michael. I couldn’t feel a damn thing. I didn’t tell you to grip my good hand instead because I feared how you would feel knowing that I was degenerating faster than you thought. Although it pained my heart knowing that I couldn’t feel your warm hand for what I am sure was the last time, I’m glad you had a smile on your face.

You might be wondering just why you’ve found yourself on top of a tree that’s taller than most buildings (and I know that you’re reading this while sitting on said tree because you’re my son).

Well, this place, where you also had your high school graduation, signifies the life you have led. Did you know that back in Ancient Rome, you would be considered a man if you made it to fifteen? That’s how hard it was to make it to adulthood. And ever since I learned that in my college major, it has haunted me ever since. Let’s just say that when only the two of us were left, this feeling intensified who knows how many fold. Every little sneeze or cough would strike my soul like a whip.

My one constant worry was that something would happen, and you would never be able to enjoy the joys of life to the end, as I have.

But at the same time, I didn’t want to make the life you were already living something tedious, so I did my best to stay out of your way, and I hope I did a good job. Only you can be the judge of that, after all.

Seeing you grow up into a healthy young man is what I consider to be the happiest time of my life.

I felt confident. Your high school graduation was right around the corner, and I was sure you had made it. You would start the path to adulthood on that day, and I would send you off, like a father walking his daughter down the aisle.

This made me drop my guard.

It is because of this that we went to spend the weekend at your uncle’s cabin.

But then you fell ill, and you found yourself, from my perspective, at death’s door.

Not since or before that day have I ever felt terror that bad grip my withered heart with leathery and coarse hands that I can still remember clearly even now as I write this, almost ten years later.

You were delirious and I was too.

The worst possible illness had struck at the worst possible time and place.

We were at least twenty miles from the nearest pharmacy, and we’d been dropped off by your uncle, so we had no car.

I got that feeling Spencer.

The feeling you get when you know beyond rational thought that something is about to happen and you can’t stop it.

I knew that without some sort of medicine, you wouldn’t make it, and I couldn’t stand that thought. I was about to lose you and I... didn’t want to accept it.

*Illegible Paragraph*

-and so, with the bicycle that I found in the shed, I peddled away to the nearest CVS and got the antibiotics you so clearly needed.

Nearly forty miles I peddled, and I didn’t realize that my legs were on fire until after I’d given you one of the capsules.

When I confirmed that your fever had indeed gone down, even though it felt like my own body was being incinerated, as long as you were alright, I could burn in hell for all I could’ve cared.

The day of your graduation, there were so many parents that I couldn’t see you, so I climbed and sat down on the very tree you find yourself sitting on at this very moment. I watched you receive your diploma, and if I had to, I would’ve gladly pedaled a hundred miles if not more on that day if it was what was needed for you to stand proud on that podium.

I love you son, that’s why I would give everything for you.

Love, Dad.

​

​

The sun in the distance was nearing closer to the far-off horizon, like the lips of a mother descending upon the forehead of her baby.

I didn’t climb down immediately.

I just stared at the distant sun and tried to think back to the night my father detailed in the note. Try as I might, I came up with memories that were neither coherent nor concrete.

I remembered lying down.

I remember it being dark.

I remember my dad coming home wet as can be, and then I remember waking up and going down to the kitchen, my dad with a smile on his face and a plate of still-steaming pancakes in his hand.

As far as I can tell, a cup of Maple Syrup was all it took to get past everything.

But the sun, now at the same level as my eyes, had nearly reached the horizon, and I knew that I had to go to the next destination he wanted me to go to because I was sure it was the last, and that I would never go there if I didn’t today.

But it wasn’t a destination.

At least, one I had never been to personally.

​

The shovel awaits you.

​

Below that cryptic phrase were latitude and longitudinal coordinates.

Ones I have not included here for a reason that will soon become very apparent.

I input them on my phone and went on my way, driving down a road that got lonelier and lonelier the more I neared my destination.

The horizon was slowly drinking that massive sun like an air bubble, and I feared I would suffocate if night were to befall me.

So, while the orange sky hung over me like a heavy blanket, I quickly made my way to the location the coordinates marked.

A clearing deep in the local forest, in the middle of which a shovel protruded out of the ground like a grave.

Much I will never say, purely for the reason that my mind had gone blank at that moment.

All I have been able to hold onto has been the feeling of the rigid wood of the shovel chafing against my soft and trembling skin as I dug right where it once stood, frantic to reach something, whatever, before no light danced through the air.

The shovel wound up stuck, and I heard a loud noise after I kicked it, which alerted me that I had struck my final treasure.

A small jewelry box was what I managed to pull out, a large gash from the shovel staining its otherwise perfect exterior.

All I found inside was the final note which my father had left me.

​

​

Dear Spencer,

I’m afraid I must tell you that this is the last letter you will find. If you’ve wondered how I was able to arrange for this scavenger hunt, I set things up the very day I got my diagnosis, a day before I told you and Michael, the only people who have remained close by my side.

Assuming that you found all my other letters and “gifts” as you could imagine them as, I hope that you were able to look back and hopefully think that I was a good father to you.

I certainly hope so.

The truth is, Spencer, that you have given me far more than I could ever hope to give back to you. I feel inadequate as I write this, knowing full well that you lay awake in your house at this very moment, thinking about me, as I set this final treasure in place.

*Illegible Sentence*

-Maybe it’s because now, as I’m writing this, I’m reminiscing back to when you were but a young boy, innocent and carefree, and always warmed my heart without meaning to.

But I digress.

Not because I have chosen to, mind you.

That is something I no longer have control over.

The details of how me and your mother met are ones I will spare you from as they hold no significant value to the continuity of this story.

All you need to know is that one thing led to another, and then another, and then another which led us to camping on the very spot where this letter was buried, and, as you may very well be aware of, we consummated our eloped marriage. I, as I said in a previous letter, one which you may or may not be aware of, was of a deeply orthodox background, and my parents dared not approve of your mother, and her parents of me, as they too were of a conservative religious background.

That is why you’ve never met any extended family, apart from my brother, your uncle, who was the only one who still loved me afterwards, and served as the best man at our impromptu wedding.

Your older sister – apart from jet black hair, darker than any we had – had eyes that pulled down instead of up.

I know that last part doesn’t make sense, but it’s the best I can describe it.

Then, of course, you came along.

We were all one happy family.

But then, you might be wondering, how come your mother – my wife – and your sister – my first-born daughter – are not in our lives anymore?

Well, son, no one ever dared to hesitate filling my ears with words complementing how much you looked like me, but no one ever told me how much your sister looked like me or your mother.

I never paid it any mind, and now I wonder if I was truly ignorant or just being protected.

All I know is that things ended when I opened a letter from someone writing to my wife, my beautiful wife, that they were sorry and were willing to take responsibility for “the little girl” he had so “callously abandoned out of youthful stupidity and naivety”.

I don’t think I need to elaborate about what happened afterwards.

I like to think that I became a puppet for my emotions, but doing so is something I only resort to as an explanation to myself when I wish to exonerate myself from the guilt of my immediate actions.

I made sure you would only find this only after I died.

You have to know Spencer.

This is my final gift to you.

The whereabouts of your mother and your sister.

You need no address or number to find them.

Only the shovel and the hole you started with.

I love my son.

I love you because you are my true flesh and blood, because MY crimson ether courses through your veins and my eyes show you the world and my hair flows down from your scalp.

I love you Spencer, because you are my flesh and blood.

Always remember that.

Love, dad.

​

​

Darkness had already fallen.

By the time the stellar light from above had been extinguished, I’d only managed to excavate only enough ground for two small empty sockets to stare back at me.

Then I was in darkness, all light having left, as though those deep abyssal hollowed eyes had engulfed my crippled soul whole with one sharp glare.

I will be calling in an anonymous tip and burn the letters which I have outlined above.

Let this post be the only anchor of truth left after I hit “ENTER”.

I hope it will make living a lie easier, knowing that I’m not crazy for remembering this and that.

But then again, what right do I have to hope?

My mother and sister certainly never had the chance to.

So why should I?

I think I’ll let everyone here decide.

I’m too tired to do so myself.

I wonder if my dad was too…