OF THE MANY gifts my dad has given me in his lifetime, the one I treasure the most has been his love for great prose.
My dad has always had such a voracious and insatiable appetite for the written word.
It was infectious.
It was a surprise to no one that he became a lawyer and a jurist. It’s not hard to see why.
Great writing has the potential to change lives upon its reading; because while well written verses are often succinct and precise, they also tend to be filled with nuance and gesture.
They force their readers to reflect in their wake.
Words and phrases in and of themselves do nothing if they do not paint a bigger picture. They need to have a unifying thread, if you will.
Dad crafted his life in the same deliberate manner that he approached his writing.
It was masterful in its artistry.
Dad was never the loudest person in the room. On the contrary, he was always the one that listened.
But he was always the sharpest.
Every strand of hair in place. Every cufflink laid just so.
Every fold was sharp and crisp.
The tortoise shell glasses were just the right shade and tone. And he smelled so good.
He was just so well put together.
He was impeccable in his dress, manner, demeanor but most especially, in his character.
He had once told us, his children, that he was not leaving us anything but his good name.
Woven throughout all this fabric was his gentleness, always the gentleness.
It pervaded every thought, every word that he wrote or texted, every carefully crafted card.
And while he may never lend this graciousness through his tender touch and calming gaze anymore, his soothing and calming voice, will never leave our ear.
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