Since my father’s death, I’ve been monitoring his email. One of the accounts is where he used to get his translation orders. Suddenly, I see that an order came in for a translation from medieval Castilian into English. This wouldn’t have worked for my father but it’s perfect for me because I love medieval Castilian.
My first impulse is, of course, to call my father and tell him this funny story. We were like that, constantly telling each other these little daily occurrences. I would have called him and we’d have an hour-long conversation about how I learned medieval Spanish and how he read Chaucer in college 50 years ago and how Zelensky is great which has nothing to do with anything but he somehow snuck it into every conversation and now there’s no one to call and I don’t know how I’ll ever get over it.