There was a framed drawing in my parent's home. It is a sketch of my father I used to draw in low teen days. Not an excellent one at all. It seems my father liked it and displayed it in his home.
I still remember when I drew this one. It was a cold winter day. He was reading a book close to a stove. I don't know why I would draw him in this way. I still remember time was flowing quietly for each of us.
Reading was one of his hobbies. He has bought a lot of books and has read some of them. Not all. It was a reason of quarrel with my mother that he had spent so much money to purchase books despite of poverty. It might be one of his intentions to leave those books to his children. Actually, I have inherited some of them on literature, history and religion. My younger son, a psychiatrist, has done the same way and has taken over the hobby to collect books. In our property, there is a storage house with thousands of his books in it. Having no children himself, I wonder how he would do with those numerous books when he passes away.
While he was alive, I had been pretty critical to him as for his character and his way of living. But, getting so old as I am now, I believe I could be a better son for him. Of course, he is not living any longer.