#06: For dad

Thinking about what matters

The other day, while waiting for a train in the Stockholm metro, I found myself staring at my boots. They’d just come back from the cobbler, re-heeled, polished, and were uncharacteristically shiny. This made me think of my dad and a weekend at his house last autumn.

Within minutes of my walking through the door, he had noticed the boots. Were they new? Yes! A recent investment. He complimented their timeless, elegant style. I told him how much I loved them, but I was troubled by how quickly and deeply the leather was creasing across the widest part of my foot. My dad (and fellow wide-footer) reassured me that this was a good thing: the leather was moulding itself to me, giving the boots a more authentic character which would only add to their beauty. I liked this thought. We carried on with our day.

The next morning, shortly before I was due to leave for the airport, he offered to polish them. I was struck by the gesture. My dad and I haven’t lived together in the same house since I was eight years old, so there have simply been fewer opportunities to experience such small, tactile acts of parental care.

What my dad and I lacked in proximity, we’ve made up for in calls. I’d hazard we’ve averaged one phone conversation a week since 1999. Our best ones always revolve around words. I can remember calling him up to talk through my Year 11 essay on Tess of the D’Urbervilles; a year prior, we had wrestled through the concluding paragraph to my creative writing coursework; not long after was the dreaded university personal statement and probably a handful of undergraduate essays. Then came Pass It On. I’ve published over 100 articles here since 2020, and he has read drafts of every single one. I send, he reads, we discuss. That’s our jam. And lately I’ve realised why it’s been so helpful. Whatever the topic, he has always managed to nudge me that bit closer to two things: saying what I actually mean, and sounding more like me. Since the quest for both is lifelong, I guess this means my dad is stuck as my unpaid editor for the rest of his days. Fortunately, everyone seems content with this arrangement:

There isn’t much subtlety to this post. It’s a tribute to my dad, and I’m privileged to be able to write it. Maybe it’s a sign I’m finally listening to his advice and closing the gap between feeling, meaning, and saying. Plus, he said he didn’t want any Christmas gifts this year, so I consider this post a satisfying festive loophole.

(Just this once, I didn’t send him a first draft.)

Merry Christmas, Dad.

Love,
Lauren