Mark Larson

I learned to read in school. I learned to want to read by watching my father. He journeyed through his world ruddered by a ceaseless succession of books. He identified points of interest along the way with his busy underlining pen, markers that I would later follow. I see him standing before his bookshelf, surveying it like a plot of land he owned. Then he’d slide a book out of its place, leaving a gap like the one between his front teeth, and open it.

I was 11 when we moved from Park Ridge to Evanston, where I didn’t know a single soul. One Saturday morning, unbeknownst to anyone, my younger brother, Brad, and I returned by bike. We arrived in Park Ridge seven hours later, filthy and spent. My displeased father drove us back to Evanston.

That night, he set on my bed a red book titled The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread. It was about a 9-year-old boy who, with his younger sister, makes a pilgrimage across town to visit a friend who had moved away.

It was the first book of its length that I’d read, and my first experience with I’ll-just-read-one-more-chapter-before-I-sleep. That book has stood on every bookshelf throughout my life.

My father died on February 25th, 2020. That night, I stood before his bookshelf. I found a copy of a book I had recently published. I slid it out, leaving a gap like the one between my front teeth. Opened it. And my eyes fell to his underscores, which marked his journey through my life.