When my father died, he didn’t leave me a fortune. He left me something better: his memories, even the ones he never talked much about.
A few years before he died in 2009, he gave me a metal box filled with photos and home movies from my childhood. He handed it over when we were visiting him in Oklahoma, just as we were leaving. He said something offhand like, “The mice are getting to this stuff out in the barn. You should take it home with you.”