The gift

I never read the only book my father gave me. It looms among the shelves of my den in its odd height, sandwiched between physics and poetry. Not a thick book. I take it down sometimes to dust; consider what kind of book a mechanic might call good company. After all, he was not a man who sat in his recliner every evening after supper discussing the classics; who would have known how to pronounce Pygmalion or Descartes or Goethe if one of his children had asked him. This is what I own of all he thought: a cartoon sketch of a boy on the cover sporting a crew cut and sneakers, his hands folded in front of him, and the words ``WHERE DID YOU GO?'' ``OUT.'' ``WHAT DID YOU DO?'' ``NOTHING.'' Who knows how some things survive the basement floods, smoke from a plugged chimney, moving from one house to the next, while others don't. This is the book he pulled out of a box to give me, oil accenting the cracks in his hand, ``Here, take it.'' These are the words that matter.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...