The Down, Dad and Me

I grabbed the old book off of the shelf. The pages were soft and yellowed - the cover flimsy, rumpled and torn- the spine nearly half-round and the corners worn through. Happy with my selection I retired to bed book in hand, slid under the covers and began to flip through the first few pages.

Suddenly the smell hit me. Hard to describe- not quite musty, but having that old papery smell. Like years old cardboard transformed by the sweltering summers of the southeast but with an underlying hint of sweetness. Instantly my mind was flooded with memories and emotion. The pressure built behind my eyes and the tears began to slowly trickle down the valley between my nose and cheek.

It was Watership Down, the first book I ever remember reading. I don’t quite know how old I was when I first read it- somewhere between 3 & 5 years old I guess. Nearly every night my Dad would come to my room, sit next to me in the bed and we would read to one another until one of us (often both of us) would fall asleep. And until a few weeks ago, that was the last time I’d picked it up.

I smiled as I finished it last night. Much like that first time reading some 30 years ago I was comfortably in bed. Hazel-rah and the warren at Watership were at peace. I drew deeply of that familiar smell, switched off the bedside lamp and satisfied fell fast asleep.

Thanks Dad. I love you.