I had ceded my room to my dad while he was visiting this weekend, though he refused the bed (clean sheets and all) like a hippie and slept on the floor in his sleeping bag. yesterday he'd cleared out all his things and we were about to leave for the airport, and I dashed up to my room to grab one last thing. placed squarely on my desk chair was a small piece of paper, my dad's handwriting in pencil: book title, author, isbn number, "d.m.k. 7/21/52." I took the paper with me back downstairs, to show him as I asked, is this your way of suggesting a birthday gift? one very brief flash of embarrassment and then he said, well, you sure picked up on that one fast.
silly as it seems I have wondered where some of my more odd flecks of personality come from. then I spend a couple days with a parent.