For the love of books...and dads.
Sometimes I forget that John was gone. You fall into this routine when they're home that it feels, almost, like they were never absent from your life. The only reminder (other than the MOUNDS of gear around the house and various Iraqi coins here and there) is that deep rooted need, want, and desire to spend as much time as possible with them. Not the normal desire. Oh no. This one is unbearably strong. Thankfully, the need is mutual.I sometimes forget that John was gone. Like yesterday. We were in a bookstore not unlike Barnes and Noble. You know the kind; pretty huge with endless aisles of endless categories of books as far as the eye can see. We had stopped for one single thing (a map) that they didn't seem to have. So I turned to leave. And then 5 minutes later after a long confused hunt for John amid the aisles, I again turned to leave after confirming that we were ready to go. This repeated. After asking if he wanted to go about 4 times and being responded with, "Yeah, sure!" but then finding him wander in the opposite direction as the door, it dawned on me: this was John's first time in a big bookstore in about 8 months. I stopped asking him if he wanted to go and instead followed him around the store and enjoyed watching him enjoy the simple pleasure of a bookstore, completely oblivious that I had suggested we leave and that he had ignored it. The love of bookstores is something we both share but something that becomes entirely new and different when it's been absent from your life for a long period of time. It's one of those things I'm sure you miss without really thinking about it. We ended up leaving with 5 books all for under 12 bucks. Now that is what I'm talking about.
It's Sunday. And it's raining. And I love it. It's two days until Mexico. It's also Father's Day. My father is one of the most complicated and interesting people I've ever or will ever know. He has given me many things among which are his brow bone, his lips and his teeth (thank goodness for good teeth genes), his toes, his musical ear (which can be a blessing and a curse...a blessing in appreciating and discovering new and old music, a curse when someone is completely oblivious that their guitar-playing is slightly out of tune), and his clap (true story). And despite my attempts at persuasion, I have never seen him without a beard, other than a few old photos. And neither has my mom, for that matter.
He has weathered many storms and has randomly decided to do so many things and just done them and ended up doing them so well that it's hard not to look at him with a sort of awe. Example: he decided one day to build me a guitar. A classical guitar. By hand. And although he never completed it, he got far enough for anyone who sees it to find themselves quite speechless. He gave me my biggest secrets and my deepest thoughts and I am forever grateful that he is my father. I love you, dad.
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