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My fathers books
Three and three quarters of a wall, all-full of different books. Some contain the most valuable of information, yet others are simply epics. I can always see my father in that library almost as if he is in a jail cell but he isn´t. He loves it. It is his sanctuary. It does not matter what day of the week you can always find him there. In his computer or behind his sepia leather chaise. The library is his heaven, his office he never seems to leave. Every time I walk in my eyes wander all around, there is so much to see and explore but my eyes always fix to one book. The leather spine has a gold inscription “Einstein”. He was the smartest man in the world and in a way he reminds me of my father. He is so intellectual and cultured. There literally is nothing in the world that compares to him. On Sundays he sits in the same sepia leather chair with a glass of wine and all you can hear all over the house is his opera. Sometimes it becomes annoying, but as I listen to it carefully the music takes me away. When he travels he takes part of his collection with him and when I walk in the library seems empty. Not only is he not there, but also there is a hollow space in a part of the wall. A book is missing. That is how you know that he is gone. To him that room is a sanctuary but whenever he calls me in to speak, it can go both ways. Either I did something good or I did something bad. Hopefully I did something good, but to be honest I rather not go in there at all. I am a nerve wreck whenever I walk in, but for some reason my father is in his happiest state in that room. The books somehow make him fill relaxed and at ease. They spread some kind of joy to him. The books are all different. Different sizes, different widths, different colors, different stories. All aligned in along three walls, all assigned to same destiny. The destiny of being ready by the greatest man. The man who has always been by my side, the man who has given me an education, the man who truly is my biggest inspiration. My father.
