It should come as no surprise that I enjoy reading books. I maintain a blog where I review everything I read, and I always have a handful of posts in various stages of completion. I even maintain an updated “to-read” list—because nothing says “book lover” like a list that grows ten times faster than you can actually read.

Some reviews take longer than others. For instance, I’ve got one in the works about the life of George Washington; you don’t exactly summarize a 900-page biography in an afternoon. You’ll love it when it’s finally done, I promise. Fiction, of course, is much easier to digest. I hope you’re enjoying the Dan Brown series—I just started book five of six.

That brings me to the real heart of this post: what I miss most about my dad. He passed away several years ago, but I still remember the days he’d come over for coffee, and we’d talk about everything—politics, religion, history, the church—but most importantly, books. Somehow, every conversation circled back to them. He loved them so much that he had a full-blown library in his home. We’re talking shelves upon shelves. He had so many volumes that he’d occasionally donate the overflow to the town library, acting as a sort of benevolent, book-hoarding Santa Claus.

I guess that’s where I get it from. He never touched a Kindle or a Nook; he loved the tactile feel of a real book and the crisp sound of turning pages. When he took a break, he’d “dog-ear” the corner—the ancient, sacred art of folding the page to mark your spot. It’s a habit that would horrify any librarian, but it delighted him.

He would’ve made an incredible book blogger. While he had his favorites, he would read absolutely anything—even the truly “wild” stuff. “Hey, Kev, take a look at this book of 1800s Celtic poems.” I’m not joking; he actually read that. I like books, but my father was fanatical about them. I can still see him in his chair, a bookcase behind him and a stack of reading material at his side, pencils ready for taking notations or marking words to look up. He was a lifelong learner.

When he passed, I never really got to say goodbye. I remember the last time I saw him, never realizing it would be the last. I was moving south at the time, and settling in took longer than it should have. Too much time slipped by—even though it was only a couple of years—and then he was gone. Life happens, and it doesn’t always give you the closure you want.

But here’s the best part—because you always have to find the best part. He didn’t leave behind much in the material sense, but he left me the most important thing: my love of reading. No matter how much time passes, I’ll always have those memories of coffee and conversation. And someday, I’m sure I’ll get to tell him.

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