Sitting in our recliner. Feet up, knees curled, coffee in hand, eyes vaguely focused on the wood out of our back window, I’m transported by my dad’s voice miles away, worlds away in fact. He is reading me Philip Pullman’s Book Dust, voices and all: from cockney Young pot boy to tremulous high voiced old nun. He has read aloud to me since I was small. He carried on reading after we grew up everyday to my mum.
Of late I have heard that rich voice has daily over FaceTime.
But now its not over FaceTime.Now he is here in Austin sitting 2 foot away , reading to me. It’s wonderful.
He arrived last night. Flying in from being spoilt by our Canadian relatives. In the long way round from Suffolk. He was in snow in the morning, now in Texas its shirt sleeves and sunshine. The kids and I waited excitedly at the Airport checking out every person traveling down the escalator. Worried we wouldn’t recognise him without his beard. In the end he was unmistakable and delightfully huggable.
It makes me realise that over the last couple of months I haven’t given enough credit to devoted dads like mine. The ones who spoil you and drive you miles and bail you out when you are broke. So here’s to dads.