My father knew everything about EVERYTHING. Even as a child he could tell me about the stars, the plants, the rocks- you name it. If I had a question about philosophy, literature or even politics- he could answer it.
When I was in college I would frequently call him. but preface "I need the micro-version of this Dad," especially if time was a factor.
He helped me study for my Masters in British Literature. Only he could break down Ezra Pound for me or make Elliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock," "bite size."
I frequently find myself wondering what he think of all this? What would he say? What kernels would he share? With each political folly, environmental crisis or world dilemma I instinctively still turn to him.
Luckily, all those night walks, coffees, and chats in his living room fill in those curious spaces for me.
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