A story my mom told me about my dad a while ago. I know I’m paraphrasing, and I’m sure one of them will correct me:
“Your father would go out for drinks after work with his fellow troopers. [it may have been his law school buddies or his fellow lawyers, who knows…] and he always drank red wine. His buddies would drink beers. And your father always drank red wine. I asked him once,
‘Patrick, don’t they make fun of you for drinking red wine?’
He stared at me for a long moment, then said, ‘Lizzie, i don’t give a shit what those guys think,’ and he took another sip of his red wine.”
I call him my own personal Encyclopedia, calling on him for answers like Google. I liken him to Sherlock and The Doctor – inherently wise, eager to learn, and curious. One of my proudest moments was the first time I beat him in scrabble, another when I answered my first jeopardy question correctly. I long to be like him – to laugh as easily, read as much, and know infinitely more. He appreciates puns the way only a highly-educated dad could, and I run to him with the YouTube videos of cats falling off sofas and men roller skating SMACK into glass doors, the more irreverent, the better. The things that make most people revisit their lunches fascinates us. He reads fiction, fantasy, nonfiction, horror, detective thrillers, and galaxies in between – you just won’t ever catch him watching friends. That is, unless mom asks him to. He’s the reason I prefer to curl up at night in a chair with a glass of wine in one hand, a cat in my lap, and Jon Stewart on the tv than to go out partying with friends. He’s the reason I choose books over reality tv shows. He’s the reason. I love him so, and miss him more. (He’s just across the country, don’t get all morbid on me.)
Here’s to you, Da! I love you I love you I love you.
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