One day I'm sure I'll put it away. But not yet, I guess.

On my desk sits a nondescript, brown, men's wallet. One day I'm sure I'll put it away. But not yet, I guess.

It is my dad's wallet, exactly as it was the day he passed away 43 years ago, the contents just as they were back then. I had not seen the wallet in all those years, until recently when my brother mailed it to me. He was looking through some old boxes, hoping to find pictures of our dad to show his kids. He found a few, but this wallet was the best find of all! 

He asked me if I would like to keep it safe for the next 43 years. Uh, yes!! I have so very little that was my dad's. A few snapshot photos, along with a professional picture of him with his coworkers on his fire department shift, are pretty much it. I was overjoyed when Tom found this wallet and asked me if I'd like to have it; I am so grateful.

"Is there any money in it?" my kids all wanted to know. Nope. Its contents are pretty much what you'd expect: a few credit cards, his insurance ID, pictures of Tom and me, a handwritten note with the address of his best friend in Tennessee, and a small 1979 calendar with the three fire department shifts identified in red, blue, and green. My dad was on "A" shift (red) for a long time, but later in his career switched to "B" shift (blue). Our lives were in many way determined by those fire shifts; holidays and other celebrations had to be adjusted to the days he was off.

There is something profoundly meaningful about holding onto a physical object that he held in his hands every day. I keep picking it up, caressing the soft leather, then setting it back on my desk. I can't seem to put it away.

I loved him very much and I miss him every day, but the memories are many. And now, I have this wallet to hold in my hands, just like he did.

One day I'm sure I'll put it away. But not yet, I guess.