Tucked deep under the duvet covers with the wind again swirling loudly outside (I think it may be the Grigal wind this time coming from the North East). They say the grigal wind can drive you mad and I almost believe it. It bellows and bashes the house and the plants in the courtyard, the trees and the rat ta ta tatting of clothes nearly whipped off the line. The sound makes you feel you are lost at sea amid plummeting waves... such dramatic noises of movement that you can hardly find the stillness of sleep no matter how badly you want it.
.... so unable to find sleep I read.
Amid the bed covers (thankfully the children with their pa at my inlaws), I was able to get lost in a book... this time I was amid spoiled boys in the streets of Havana before the Batista was overthrown... a good story so far... descriptive quirky details about the characters especially the father, the oversized porcelain collecting judge who believed he was King Louis XVI in a past life. Hours later sitting eating soup, listening to Orhan Pamuk reading My Russian Education by Nabokov on the Ipod, I am taken somewhere else- this time to sleigh-rides in St. Petersburg.. long chess games in a dark library and again fathers, larger than life and just out of reach... again the nostalgia.
Does every man hold on to a memory of their father in such a way... does it change when they become a father themselves? Is there something slightly untouchable about the memory of our fathers that we have from early childhood? What are some early good memories you have of your father?