my father was reading the amber spyglass that night. he was contemplating about rhododendrons, and barley cakes, and the usage of eccentric english words. he isn’t a fan of fiction, he told me. normally, he’d read autobiographical essays about famous people like barack obama, or short stories about war. i don’t have books like that, i told him. instead, i have the curious incident of the dog in the night-time. you’ll love it, i shyly said. after reading a whole paragraph off of the amber spyglass, he looked at me gently, and said, “let me have it, and i’ll try to read it.”
we never had enough courage to say that we care about each other much less that we love. so we live in these rare moments, far heavier than loose words but simpler than how are you’s and i love you’s.
oh, no one knows how much i’'ll miss this.
