My Sterious_Boxes

My dad had three boxes in his room
all covered in dust, I asked him why he kept those boxes? he said they were all his life’s memories. In potts-johnson street he had just two boxes, I think I remember that clearly, but then he went to Kosovo and Sudan for peacekeeping and spent a total of four years out of our lives.
My friends even told me; if your daddy was dead there was nothing to be shy about, we wouldn't love you less.
I and Royal would take our baths and wear fresh cloths to kolokuma street, waiting for his call, and some times he forgot to ring us.
When he eventually calls, with sleep in my eyes all i said was "Daddy, buy me video game, sega mega drive II".
He would send very clear pictures of himself in Kosovo, one was with some white kids and a little boy about my age that he held so close, they looked like father and son.
I hated that photo, I hated him even more, I forgot his face; distilled naivety.
His return ticket was scheduled September eleven, in two thousand and one, the same day the plane crashed the World Trade Center, you can imagine the scare.
In two thousand and three he applied to go to somalia but my mum said no!, enough of the life risking, everything isn't about the money.
And now that i am grown, i appreciate every single thing he did to make us comfortable, and i'm very sorry for my ignorant prejudice.
But my prayer is, when i get to open those boxes filled with his memories, i hope to see my mum, myself and Royal in a poem, sipping white wine listening to all his apologies; of how busy he was on the days he forgot to ring us.
I hope to read a letter he wrote to mum incase he died, and an introductory letter to me copied to all my friends expecially Kelvin , telling them he was my dad, but if I don't see all these in his box of memories, then I wonder the hell he had locked up...
MY DAD AND HIS THREE BOXES