49: Memento vivere

Notre Dame was as beautiful as I remembered. There's a calm in grand cathedrals which can't be duplicated, a sanctity that has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with faith. There is something to be said for a self-contained realm which can turn the thoughts of even the most stoic of atheists to questions of an almost spiritual nature.

Tomorrow I shall visit the Paris Opera House. It's one of the few landmarks of the city I never experienced during my prior stay, and I'm looking forward to it.

During the ride back to the apartment I was treated to Rubinstein's rendition of Liszt's Liebesträume no. 3. The stations in Los Angeles play that particular recording only infrequently, so it was a small pleasure to catch it. Rubinstein's interpretation has always been my favorite. My father's, as well. Work on his most difficult cases usually involved him hiding in his study, with Liebesträume no. 3 spilling from the half-open door. I suppose it helped to calm his mind.

I rarely entered his study. It was...his space, and only his. I was always welcomed, of course; we spent most of our time together yet he always seemed glad to see me when we'd been apart for even a short time. The study was his, though, and almost sacrosanct. Intruding while he was in there felt improper and I had no desire to be an annoyance. (Not then, at least. I'm sure I made the typical nuisance of myself at other times.)

Still, there were a few times when it was necessary to interrupt Rubinstein. He always gave me his attention, but it was never quite immediate; he had to pull his gaze away from the photograph of my mother. Do you remember it, Phoenix? The one in the brass frame that rested on the bookshelf against the far wall? The picture Larry almost broke one of the many times he goaded us into the study while my father was in another part of the house. For that matter, do you remember when he broke father's globe? That piece was an antique, a family heirloom. It was a miracle he still allowed you two to stay the weekend.

...Perhaps not. He always was far more forgiving than any of us deserved. Especially Larry.

My father was a great man. I'm glad that you knew him. That you're able to remember him with me. It struck me as odd, this afternoon: it was almost twenty years ago. In that time I've felt his absence keenly, more so when I hear this song, as memory connected to sensory input is so much stronger than what the mind can conjure on its own. Yet when I heard it today I remembered him, and his study... It was such a good memory. It's always been a good memory. I wonder why it never seemed that way before.



((OOC: Oh dear God why?))