I feel closer to my dad when I see his handwriting, when I can touch the lined legal notepads onto which he poured his heart and soul and survey data. Maybe it sounds crazy, but holding his handwritten words feels a little like holding his hand.
My dad was always making lists, scribbling notes in the margins of book pages, or writing reminders to himself on the palm of his left hand. He rarely went anywhere without a felt-tip pen in his shirt pocket, just in case inspiration struck – whether it was his next great idea or an addition to the grocery list.
All my life, I’ve thought I had inherited my mom’s handwriting – a casual version of her elegant penmanship. But in the four months since my dad’s death, I’ve run across so many post-it notes that I thought were mine, only to realize they were my dad’s. I’ve found myself mindlessly {or mindfully?} tracing over the letters with my finger, surprised at how each stroke and swoop comes so naturally. How did I not notice this before?
We had dreams of writing together, my dad and I. Now, when I put pen to paper, I realize maybe we still will.
