It was a box. Unmarked and taped shut.

On the box was a note.

He read it and the words colored his eyes and his mind like blood in water. For a minute he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t breathe or think or read or act or do anything. All he could do was shut his eyes and feel the pain in his soul.

It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.

But he opened his eyes unsure whether there were tears in them or not. It’d been some time since he got all girlie and cried like this. But something inside was broken and something else was gushing out of those cracks.

His hands shook as he went to open the box. He wanted and needed a drink but more than that he wanted and needed to open this.

For a second the shaking seemed to consume his entire body. He let go of the box and tried to straighten his hands. For a moment he wondered if anybody was around. But nobody was here. Nobody came down here. Ever.

Nobody except young visitors who let themselves in only to get let down.

He pried open the top and then looked inside.

The colors were unmistakable.

The number was without question.

He touched it and could tell right away that this was real. This was no fake or knockoff.

This was the real deal.

Then the words from the note came to his mind and he knew.

The dots didn’t connect because there were too many of them. But he at least understood the meaning behind the words.

The man picked up the letter again and reread it.

The words there were more valuable than this jersey with the bold number 23 on it.

Dad,

You taught me that Michael Jordan wasn’t just some amazingly talented kid. He also worked really hard at the one thing he loved. That’s what I am going to do. And you can do it too.

I’m not giving up on you, Dad. I’m not going to—I can’t—keep a grudge either.

Maybe in time—and with a lot of hard work—we can be a family again.

God bless you, Dad.

I love you,
Thomas

Daryl Brandt hadn’t realized till that moment that he was kneeling on the battered porch of his house.

This wasn’t just a Chicago Bulls jersey in this box. It wasn’t just an autographed Michael Jordan jersey.

This was a piece of his son and a piece of him. This was a part of their story. Minuscule but miraculous nevertheless.

He swallowed and looked up into the sky.

The hand that still shook wiped the tears off his cheek. He nodded toward the heavens. That was all he could do, but it was more than he’d done for years. For decades.

Daryl wondered if that story was finished. If the stories with all of them were done.

He could only hope they weren’t.

Epilogue

The Following July

Unbelievably, there was silence in the house.