My father died seven years ago today.
He loved woven words. They were the closest sound to divinity for him. In them and through them, he connected to our family, his friends and colleagues, and thousands of students. It was a testament to his passion for language and connection that so many of those students came to the memorial service, donned one of his ties (he had so many), and laughed and cried with my sister, my mom, and me as we remembered him in our own words and those of Alfred Lord Tennyson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Mary Oliver.
His voice was so Jovian. Its giant round baritone resonated from a chest made of oak. He used it so well to make his words mean more than just their definitions. Each inflection and turn of timbre turned phrases and sentences into textured melodies. People remember that about him. They’ll say to me, “I loved when you’re dad would talk. I would just listen to every word.”
I miss your words dad. Sleep well.
Peter Walks for Democracy 