Material things have no value
For they can be lost stolen or forgotten
And those things of value
Can soon rust to nothing
Returning to the ground as all things must
~ Gemini Joe ~
W
hile my mom was still alive, my Dad had a Goomara. In Italian, that means a girlfriend. Her name was Teresa and she was a small Italian woman. I think my mom knew about her, but she never let on.
Shortly after my mom died, Teresa moved in as if she was part of the family. She cooked his meals, gave him his medicines, and cleaned him up. Out of respect for my mom, no one questioned their relationship, but we all had our suspicions.
Teresa was the only one that knew about his finances. He didn’t trust the banks, so he kept his money in a green metal box that he locked and hid under the stairs. He kept the key in his shirt pocket at all times. Keeping in mind the daily fights he had with my brothers, I asked him to make sure when he died that everything he had was shared equally among his children. He promised to make a will.
In growing up, I didn’t seem too connected to my family. My dad did respect me though. The next time I went to visit him, he said, “Help me to the table,” and asked Teresa to bring him his box. I helped move the oxygen stand to the dining room and Teresa laid the box on the table. My dad opened it and pulled out some papers.
“Here,” he said. “This is my will. I made everything equal as you requested.” He smiled. “You got what you wanted. I'm naming you executor! Are you happy now?”
The emphysema was progressing and my dad found it harder to catch his breath. He had an oxygen tank, which helped him. When he was very sick, they put a tube in his throat to drain the phlegm.
He reached for the oxygen hose and sucked on it for air. Then he stuffed the documents back into the box, but before he could close the lid, I noticed stacks of hundred dollar bills lining the bottom.
I was happy that my dad thought everything should be equal. But it didn’t work out that way.