I still possess The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam I gifted my father in October, 1972. I know the date as I wrote it on the inside cover when I gave it to him. A voracious reader, my father had a remarkable knack for recalling passages from beloved texts, often prompting me with, “What does that mean to you, Little One?”

I loved it when he called me by my nickname, a name only he used. It brought me closer to the enigma I always saw him as.

A not very patient man himself, whenever I displayed hints of my own impatience, he loved to quote from The Rubaiyat. “The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.” I’d sigh and say, “Slow down. Enjoy the moment.”

He never just skimmed the surface of words; he delved deeper, seeking their core meaning. He also never gave me the deeper meaning, asking always to probe, to think about it, to consider the possibilities.

It is this legacy of questionning and probing I cherish most. His reverence for the written word gave me glimpses into worlds I never could have imagined. Books were sacred in our home, so sacred, he never marred their pages, except to inscribe a note inside the cover when gifting one.

In contrast, as the youngest of four, often feeling overshadowed by my only brother, the son upon whom the sun rose and set, or so I thought, my small acts of rebellion included annotating my books. This habit, perhaps a way to feel connected to my father, persists despite his admonitions I not do it.

This morning, as a flock of geese echoed over the river, my mind wandered to my father, his adoration for words, and the Rubaiyat. Inspired by Val Boyko’s inquiry on her blog, Find Your Middle Ground, “What brings a spring in your step these days?” I went in search of my father’s copy of The Rubaiyat and crafted this haiku.

Spring is on the wing,
Geese sing nature’s symphony—
In rest, time flows on.

Opening the book, I discovered my youthful dedication: signed, “The Brat.” This nickname, bestowed by my mother, was one she urged me to outgrow as I neared the end of my teenage years. “You’re not a child anymore,” she remarked once, with a wistful sigh, “though sometimes I wonder.”

That period marked a significant year—I had presented my father with The Rubaiyat and embarked on a bold attempt to attend university in Moscow. This move drew the attention of the Canadian security service, sparking a series of interrogations fueled by concerns over potential communist ties. Immersed in the world of my father’s spy novels, I found the situation amusing rather than alarming, cheekily inquiring, “Do you think I’m a spy? How thrilling!”

Thankfully, my father was acquainted with the interrogators and eased their concerns. “She’s merely pushing boundaries,” he assured them. “It’s just her way.”

Now at 70, it remains my way: to constantly challenge myself, to push boundaries, and to explore how high I can soar without wings.

This morning, geese rest upon the frozen river bank. And though I cannot ascertain the remaining flight left in their wings, I vow to extend my horizon until time rests.

Thanks dad.