Practice in Minimalism
Throughout his life my father was a devout reader, by the age of nine I began to develop the same love of fiction. If I close my eyes I can still see him, in the bedroom, all the pillows on the bed propped up behind him, the night stand lamp pulled right to the edge with its shade cocked to the side totally absorbed in his newest paperback. Being pre-adolescent, I had not yet transitioned into the obnoxious teenager I was about to become; it was that magical time when children still yearn to be like their parents, and as for me, I knew my father had hung the moon. I remember watching him read and wanting to be there beside him with my own paperback, side by side turning the pages, sharing secrets from the stories, enjoying our private father/daughter book club. Once or twice I asked him for one of his books it seemed perfectly acceptable to me that he would give me one. I was an excellent fourth grade student at Sedge Garden Elementary; and a prolific reader, so it confused me, when my request was met with, “these are grown-up books, wait until you are older.” I may have been a bit discouraged but I would not be thwarted in my mission to open up one of those covers, their pictures beckoned me like posters from the action movies I was never allowed to watch; they were simply too much temptation for my curious young mind. From that point on, I would sneak into my parents' room, carefully checking that everyone else was busy and once assured there was no possibility of discovery, I would read; covertly stealing glimpses into my father’s world of adventure, undercover agents and dangerous women.