There Is Only Time

There Is Only Time

Last summer, Uncle Jeff came to town and thudded an old Ziploc on the table. "Brought some of your dad's old stuff," he declared. A single hand hovered over the bag. "Got it from your aunt." In the thirty years since my father was killed in action, many similar bags and boxes have been handed over. Over time, the cracked Rubbermaid containers stacked up to my attic's rafters, a quarter-inch of dust crowning their ancient lids. But every box of D…