the books

My dad would write a note each morning. To us. He believed in Mornings. In the note he greeted us, individually by name or as a whole. He’d remind us to have a great day, to “smile large”, he might wish my brother or me good luck on some endeavor or give us the low down on the day’s weather. He almost always drew a smiley face.

When I moved out in 2000 at the age of 19 I made him empty spiral bound books with a page for each day. My hope was that he would write me a note each day like he had done almost all my life and give me the books back the following Christmas. He didn’t. He gave them back many years later. Christmas of 2008. Two years and 8 months into his illness. 2 years and 4 months before he died. My daughter had just turned one. Looking through them… it looks like he made it about 11 months before he lost track of it.

Before he gifted them back to me he filled up the remaining pages. One word per page.

Make a genuine effort to stay in closer touch with family and good friends. Resolve to stop magnifying small problems and shooting from the lip. Find the time to be kind and thoughtful. All of us have the same allotment: 24 hours a day. Give a compliment. Think things through. Forgive an injustice. Listen more. And always be kind.

I like his advice. Its sound.

http___signatures.mylivesignature.com_54494_63_9EB0AB5B2EC5A67585265BD9B1F7BAE4

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