#2

I can count on my dad; I know that no matter what he will be there for me. Maybe the smallest way I can be sure of this is how he read to me, or what he read to me. I think when I was seven, maybe younger, I found a series called the Magic Attic, and looking back it was pretty terrible; basically there were four girls who could transport themselves into becoming princesses and cowgirls from a magical attic in their neighborhood. The stories themselves are all but forgotten but the memory of snuggling up to my father with Keisha the Fairy Snow Queen in my hand and an expectant look in my eyes is still there. He might have sighed occasionally, even a  casual eye roll once in a while, but he always read it, he’d always crack open the cover and read a poorly written, illustrated story of a girl becoming a snow queen in an alternate dimension, he would read the whole thing and then the next one I handed him. Sometimes he would fix us both a bowl of ice cream and grab a book of his own, something a bit less frivolous, A Series of Unfortunate Events , and read that to me until I realized that maybe a bloodthirsty child stalker, was a better read than Keisha and those books went into our attic. Even now that I read my own books my dad sometimes will slip a book into my hands, with an uninvited recommendation of “You would like this.” And despite my reluctance, I always do.