I’ve been reflecting about my life as a storyteller recently. And my dad keeps coming up in conversation. I went back and read a letter I wrote to him in his final days where I had written about the lessons he taught me. Even fourteen years later, I carry his voice and lessons with me wherever I go. Here is that letter.
Dear Dad,
You taught me to love books through our nightly reading time and your own passion for the written word. You taught me to love language itself, never talking down to me, and always ready to explain the big words when I didn’t understand. You taught me to see the beauty in the world around me, whether we were walking in the woods or exploring the gardens at the National Cathedral.
I get my silly nature from you. I admit, it was a little embarrassing at the time when you talked to “Sally,” the mannequin at Hecht’s, or mooed like a cow as you pretended to eat grass when you picked me up from school. But that silliness, the joyful absurdity I inherited from you, has kept me laughing even in dark days. You nurtured my imagination too, as we made up stories during our walks or swapped tales about George, my imaginary friend.
My children may never get the chance to hear your voice or feel the warmth of your hugs, but they’ll come to know you through the stories I tell and the pictures I share. You’ll live on in their laughter, their curiosity, and their love of a good tale.
You continue to inspire me. Within a week of your diagnosis of Stage Four lung cancer, you decided to write a book. To me, that’s just who you are. Someone who meets the hard things with creativity and purpose.
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