ONCE IN A while, I have thoughts that shake up my simple, straightforward life. Questions like, Have I missed the bus? Should I be more aggressive in my career as a writer? Make my words count for more? Or rather, should I have earned more for my work? Not possible, silly, an inner voice reminds me, You're your father's daughter.
Appa shared a similar feeling many years ago. "I wish I had bought property or invested in something that yielded big returns," he said wistfully.
"What makes you say that?" I asked in surprise-it was uncharacteristic of him to express such regret. "Wouldn't it have been nice for you and your brothers to inherit some sizable chunk when I'm gone?" he said with a big smile.
When Appa passed away peacefully one morning, he left behind a wealth of precious memories. Part of my priceless inheritance from him is a box of yellow pencils. Some barely used, some worn-down, but each unfailingly functional, they remind me of his love of solving crossword puzzles. Of him sitting by the window, bathed in the morning light, carefully filling in their tiny boxes. The pencils were always sharp, the pens never dry, and the erasers and sharpeners always close at hand.
In his eighties, Appa would read the day's newspaper, cover to cover, with a pleasant smile on his face. But wasn't the news full of political mud-slinging, disasters, and advertisements?
"What are you reading that's so funny, Appa?" I would ask.
"Oh, nothing. I don't pay much attention to the news. But reading reminds me of forgotten words that help me solve the crossword. Ah, go it! 12-D, CLASH!"
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