Drifted away

When I was little, I used to love it when my dad would take me into his work. He would let me wander on stage (carefully supervised, of course) and look at the sets. My brother and I would get to sit at the Anne school desks and write on the slates. My dad would take me backstage during shows sometimes so I could see behind the scenes and meet the people there. If I was really lucky, he would get me a seat in the old sound booth so I could watch a sold out show. He would tell me stories about the shows that used to play at the theatre. My dad is a man of few words, so when he did talk at length about a topic, I would absorb everything like a sponge and then play the conversation over and over in my mind afterwards. There's so much about him that is a mystery, but I hold on to the tiny bits of himself that he would show me.

When I was little, my mom was always reading to me. She was always bringing home new books for me to read, or taking me to the library so I could wander through the shelves and check out a dozen books at a time. She never seemed to mind reading the same book repeatedly, always using different voices and inflections for each character. She also used to bring home lots of music for me, and never seemed to mind when I played the same tapes over and over again while practicing my self-choreographed dance numbers in the mirror. She always let me lick the beaters when she made cake. Sometimes I used to leave my covers half off at night so she would tuck me in again on her way to bed. She gives great hugs.

Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.

I think (I hope) they're both happy now.

It's been two years.