December marks the 3rd anniversary of my dad’s death. While each day, month, year it gets easier, I still get quite sad this time of year especially around the holidays.
My dad was a tough one to buy things for at Christmas. I’ve grown to be a lot like him in the sense that if I want and/or need something, I’ll just buy it instead of waiting for someone to get it for me for the holidays. But the one thing we always got him was books. Admittedly, my sister was always picking books out for him because they tended to read the same authors, but I’d still try to find some spy novel or mafia book he hadn’t read yet.
I’d usually pick him up between 2-3 books at Christmas and by New Year’s Eve, they would have been consumed. For a man who faithfully worked six days a week and took off few holidays, he was perfectly capable of reading a multitude of books in a year. He was a voracious reader (as is my mom), and I’ve picked up their trait.
While closing in on the end of the year, it’s apparent that once again I’m not going to make 52 book in 52 weeks. As of now I’m at 45. My mother is somewhere at like 145. My dad never kept a list, but I have to imagine if he did, he would have been well over 100 in a year.
Before my dad died, he was working his way through a book that sadly he never got a chance to finish. For whatever reason, it really bothered me that he didn’t get to see how it ended. I’ve thought a lot in the last three years about finishing that book for him, but the truth is it’s the one book I’ve refused to touch. Perhaps next year I’ll add it to my 52 books. Three years have passed… perhaps it’s time to let him know how it ended.