So many thought were rolling through his mind when the voice announced approach of his father’s station. He lived nearby so taking one of the driverless taxis seemed unnecessary. He walked going through a park where on one of the benches a group of local alcoholics were arguing about some irrelevant point. In the same world some are to travel insumornable distance to meet the Others while some choose the obscurity of a cheap wine bottle. The irrational contrast of this image flew briefly through his mind. He always had secret admiration for alcoholics. Of course he hated their filthy clothes and their red faces that aged too quickly but he liked their freedom. They’ve crossed the boundary of what’s considered acceptable – in their despair, pathetically asking to spare some change – they’ve also show contempt for this society. Just like him, they hate the status quo. They were brothers on two different sides of the glass ultimately fighting for the same thing. Or maybe not? What if they are made up of different material – both trying to reject status quo but only those alkaholiks doing so for real? Didn’t the Poet have to accept the status quo to end up on this mission, play the game to be elected to go? Maybe he just wants to be free like them pretending that indeed they have something common.

At his father’s house some lights were still on. He always worked at night often going to sleep when others woke up. The Poet didn’t want to intrude just yet so instead of ringing the bell he entered through the garden and walked to one of illuminated windows casting its golden glow onto the garden. Inside, the skinny body of his father was bent over some papers – he was writing. He always dreamed to write so when he retired he decided to fulfil his dream and started writing mystery novels. They weren’t good and no one wanted to publish them, not discouraged he kept churning those out. He was working feverishly as if trying to catch up with lost time of those years he’s traded while working for a corporate machine. The Poet didn’t mind that his father’s books were bad – they were his hobby but often wondered what motivated him. Did he suspect that his prose was overwritten and lacking clarity? Even when one gets through over complicated sentences – there was awfully little originality in what he had to say. And yet he kept on writing as if desperately searching for something – something that makes him him. At 78, he was ready to unpeel the layers of societal imposition to discover what makes him. Feeling death’s breath on his back – the urgency for him was real. What did he hope to find under those layers? If indeed he finds some kernel of self hidden deep within – does it matter at this age? Why were we made to keep on going until the very last breath abandons our lungs? You put away that moment further and further away, glad that life’s complexities find ways to distract you from your goal because you are terrified to find out who you are. Secretly you suspect that not much might be at the core. Every mark you make is a proof of your banality – sometimes you would rather escape into life’s distractions but because you’ve made the first move on this path of self-discovery, you know that there is no going back. Even if your life gets extremely busy, you know that there is a side of you waiting to be revealed. You know that you’ve put away this revelation for too long and yet you gladly find ways to escape truth by hiding behind daily platitudes. Like those alcoholics in the park who’ve given up on the facade, those silly books might be his father’s way of ridding self of a mask that hid his face all those years. He’s given up on the lies – doesn’t want to appear “this” or “that” but rather be who he truly is: he’s a simple man who enjoys writing silly mysteries. He doesn’t even particularly like to read those sort of books, just write them. His dream of making a profound contribution to the world ends with final page of each book. The Poet envied his father, he would love to gain that state of mind – to be detached from misery of seeking immortality. The agony is fueled not by desire but incongruence of two ideas: one can’t seek glory in opposition to the masses. Desire to detach from the masses dooms the enterprise.

The Poet really didn’t want to interrupt him. He considered leaving but at that very moment his father stopped writing and looked up meeting his gaze. He smiled softly thanking him with his eyes for the visit. He invited him in and made some warm tea. They didn’t talk much – both understanding that the visit is special and didn’t want to dilute its importance with empty words. Tomorrow’s take off isn’t just the Poet’s death, it’s also a farewell to the father’s life. Although neither one will really die – they’ll never meet again. Those are the last moments they are alive together.

They sipped the tea both taking in the moment. The father stood up suddenly realising something. He brought in a metal box and put it on the table.

“I’m taking this with me tomorrow to the launch site. The mission commander has promised to store it safely for your return.”

The Poet smiled at this sincere naivete.

Detected this sarcasm in the Poet’s grimace, father said:

“This is metal, what, you think it will rust? I applied double coats of paint so nothing can get through.”

“I think it depends how it’s stored,” he responded now more sincerely.

“That’s why. I can’t leave it here. Where would I keep it safe? Bury it underground near that tree out in backyard? It’s going to corrode. Besides this house won’t stand so long – look at that wall – it’s already leaning. They’ll tear down this house and build something else after I die. What if they think up putting a septic tank right where I bury the box? I don’t want your memories mixing with someone’s shit.”

“Let’s hope it’s safe with the mission control.”

“Don’t worry. As long as I live I will make sure the box is safe.”

He smiled enjoying his genuine concern.

“You think I’m done for but there is still some blood in me.”

“I know, dad. I know.”

“You want to see inside? Go look!”

He did wonder what the old man could have put inside to help him remember.

“Ah, I remember now!” he exclaimed standing up. “I forgot something” and went to another floor of the house.

The Poet opened the box that he shouldn’t see for the next few centuries. To open the box now has a different meaning then after the return. Those two states of mind spell out different conclusions. Today he looks at the contents of the box as his old man’s nostalgia for the past. The box and its contents put a soft smile on his face because he imagined the love his father must feel for him – the love that he tried to encapsulate in those few random objects. Tomorrow, he’ll look at it differently. To be honest, he doesn’t know what it will feel like to look at those artifacts having went on the journey. He just knows the feeling will differ. Inside, there were a few dozens 3D photographs. Since he can remember, his father used an old-fashion 3D camera to take pictures of his family. It drove his mother crazy because the technology was old, the cartridges were expensive and its development required shiping the plastic box to some obscure business in forgotten part of the country. After all the anticipacion, when the pictures came back they were often unimpressive. They were simple snapshots of their life. The 3D technology was so primitive that you could barely get 30 degrees of movement before the frame of the photo obliterated view. He was surprised that his father has held onto those images for so long. Looking at the pictures now, he was probably more nostalgic than he admit to himself. Those were simple memories – him, his mother, his father, millions of people born before and many millions after have experienced those in their lives. His mother and his father together smiling, their only child in between. Nothing particularly rare in the framing or their behaviour and yet there was something peculiar here. The pedestrian meaning that uses convenient schematic elements – man, woman, child; father, mother, son; smiling, kissing, making faces, holding hands, looking at one another, looking at the lens – to tell a very unique story despite its apparent banality. He kept asking himself how can so much banality bring about a profound meaning? If one was to compare those very images against millions showing the same scenes, they appear the same but they are different. The appearance falsifies the truth – each image represent a unique moment, unique scenario, unique set of circumstances. The universe’s particular molecular arrangement is never to be repeated despite appearances. What was true of our grandparents will not be true of our children. Those scenarios exist in vastly different universes.

He couldn’t help looking into his father’s youthful face smiling at the goofiness of his child and imagine his  dreams. He was always a complex “simple man” – no matter how naive or simple-minded we appear to the world, there is always lurking under the skin possibility of greatness. He indeed dreamt to do something great in the world but realities of life have forced him to settle, to take up jobs that support the machine trickling down into support of the family. The same story repeated over millions of times in lives of many. He wasn’t completely happy and never really pretend to hide his unhappiness. He remembered the mother crying often assuming it was somehow her fault. The father tried to cheer her up claiming that he was the source of his own unhappiness and she couldn’t understand it. They both soldiered on. The Poet imagined how resentful the father must have felt for not fulfilling his great ambition for life. At the same time maybe he was secretly grateful that it took until his retirement to realize that the few scraps of written words he has to share with the world aren’t worth much. Up to that point he lived in mizery of dreams unfulfilled, maybe he’s avoided the horrors of disappointment at having nothing to say.

He heard his father coming back. He put down on the table a bottle of a soft drink and brough two wine glasses. He opened the drink and poured two glasses ordering:

“Try it!”

The Poet realised it must be his home brewed wine stored in a container of a soft drink brand that long has gone out of business.

“Dad, you know I can’t”

“You can,” he didn’t want to listen, “it’s my last bottle.”

As he said that, everything became clear. The last time his father has brewed wine was the year his mother died. The bottle was old because it was almost 20 years ago that his mother has passed away. His father was opening a bottle that was sealed as the memory of the woman he loved, now unsealing it to celebrate the son he loves as well.

“Drink,” he insisted and he knew he can’t refuse.

He took a sip. The wine was strong. It wasn’t good but it didn’t matter. The act of holding onto the memory was so powerful that it easily masked bad taste. He took a few more sips before he heard the ringing of the communicator. The Mission Control commander was concerned (spikes in the blood caused by intake of the alkohol must have made him nervous). He sounded all business. The Poet knew he won’t be able to blow him off as he did the last time. It was time for me to go. He put back the contents into the box and gave it back to his father.

He hugged him goodby holding back the tears that were collecting under his eyelids. The father held his arms looking into his eyes and said:

“I wrote a letter,” he walked to his writing desk and picked some pages up. He put those in an envelope and sealed it. “But you can read it later,” and inserted it into the box.

“You must go now, I know”

The Poet realized, it wasn’t yet another chapter in one of his novelas that he was working on when he intruded on him – it was a letter to him in a few hundred years.