When my father passed away, my sister asked if I would go to his house to pack his belongings. I didn’t relish the thought but agreed. He and I had a fractured relationship and hadn’t spoken in years. We had our differences and difficulties though death has a way of resolving arguments, even if questions still remain.

He spent most of his life living in Southern California, a stone’s throw away from the Mexican border. Living on the East Coast, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at his house. His home was filled with a variety of knickknacks and collectibles, items that meant something to him for one reason or another. In the walk-in closet, stacked to the ceiling, sat two dozen comforters. Each remained unused in its original packaging. It seemed odd that he hoarded so many, especially since there wasn’t one on his bed.

“Another question unanswered,” I thought before dismissing the matter altogether.

When I stumbled upon a scrapbook, I thumbed through the pages, hopeful to learn more about the man I barely knew. The faces in the photos were unfamiliar, friends of his I guessed, each posed in similar fashion while enjoying time spent in various landscapes. There were photos of campgrounds, the desert, and the like with handwritten directions on each. A way to retain the memories when his memory started to fail.

On the last page, a handwritten letter from my father provided an index of sorts, explaining the life he once lived. It detailed the people he killed and location of each, as evidenced by the photos in the album. He hoped to provide peace of mind to the surviving family members. I never really knew my father, just as I didn’t know what to do with his scrapbook.