In late November, 1995, I sent a package to my eldest child in Miami, Florida; I was living in St. Louis, Missouri. The package was returned to me in January, 1996, with a post office stamp indicating that it could not be delivered because “the box was closed.” A recent scavenge through the archeological dig that is my apartment turned up that package, which was still unopened. I called Lisa to warn her that I was re-sending the package, though I had no idea what was in it.
I’ve written about “love bombs,” those unexpected bits of joy I uncover while rummaging through the rubble of my disheveled life. My youngest daughter was good at leaving notes; I once found one she had written in the early 1990s, and squirreled away in a small cabinet I used to store papers. I found it sometime in the last two years. Lauren was always an avid note-writer. On my refrigerator is a note from the early 90s: “Dad have a good day today oh would you make 15 copies of this paper (heart) you Lauren.” (I may not be remembering this correctly, but I think my 7-year-old wanted to get into the dog-walking business in my apartment building.)
Just before I left to spend a week with my grandbeauties during their spring break, I opened a book of poetry while researching poems for National Poetry Month. I found a stamped envelope I had addressed to my granddaughter at an address that was three years out of date, from an address I had not lived at for almost four years. I didn’t know what was in it and my daughter advised me to bring it and present it in person.
In New Jersey, I saw what was in the time capsule from November 1995 that I had sent to Lisa: a letter from her brother, who was 6 at the time, and a complex drawing from her sister, who was 7. My note to her was advice on how to decode her brother’s phonetic spelling. The 4-year-old letter to my granddaughter was a note that I had composed of stick-on letters of all shapes, colors and fonts, none of which was the same: “Hi Imani I love you Cool Papa.” I’d like to think of that as a “love bomb” to my baby girl.
My daughter told me that she saves all my handwritten notes to her children, saying that she recognizes them as my attempt to atone for my failures of communication with her. She said it without rancor; she’s forgiven me for a lot. As I was preparing to end my Spring Break sojourn with my grandpuppies, I was touching the things in their rooms, remembering which items I had given them. In Xavion’s room, a traveling chess set, and in Imani’s room, another love bomb.
Last Christmas, I bought a sketch book at an art fair because it had been crafted by a company called “Imani Workshop.” I gave it to my Imani and this April, I found a note she had written inside the front cover: “On Christmas in 2015 my grandpa gave me This Special Book and a card. Not just an ordinary card. It seid ‘Imani’s Workshop.’ It’s in the back of this Book. I’ll show it to you. P.S. I din’t relly work thire! P.S. This paper is handmabe.”
And when I got back to Indy, I found a note in my mailbox from my landpeople, thanking me for my column about their dog, Doug, a dowsing rod that set off a love bomb and struck water.