Tomorrow, August 26th, marks three years since my dad died. I miss him all the time, but it's getting easier to think about him without instantly getting sad. I can get look around and see everything that reminds me of him and it makes me smile.
For instance, my dad loved tinkering around in the garage. Both at his home and at the cottage up north. He would organize his things, rearrange whatever he felt needed rearranging that day, work on projects. If we ever needed to find him, the garage would generally be the first place we'd look.
He was also something of a collector. Antiques, tools, boxes, and his favorite collectible; books. The walls in the garage up north are lined with shelves covered in books. As anyone who knew my dad can tell you, he was an avid reader. Books. Magazines. Newspapers. If it had words on it my dad would read it. I learned a love of reading from him, one of my favorite photos is of me as a baby in his lap and he's reading me a book.
I don't make the time to read as often these days, and it's something I'd like to remedy. Today I went out into my dad's garage and I looked at some of his books. I picked one off the shelf and held it and wondered if my dad had read this particular one. He probably did.
There are many ways in which I am similar to my father. A tendency toward drama, a need to travel, loyalty towards my family and friends, and the love of a good story. I've been missing the feel of a book in my hands. It's time to bring that back into my life.
I think my dad would like that.
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