When I was young, I played a game, power of observation, with my father. At first, I was terrible, but I’d get better. After 20 minutes, I felt like I was taking snapshots with my mind. ① He taught me that memory, or at least observation, is a muscle. I’ve been flexing it every day since then, or at least trying to. Whenever I miss ② him, I play the same game with my own son, who’s named after my father, Solomon. ③ He is better at it than I was. He is nearly ten years old, the age I was when my father died. I doubt this Solomon will grow up to be a writer. But it comforts me to know that whatever he does, he’ll go forth in the world with something handed down from my father even though ④ he wasn’t around to give it to Solomon directly. He was a truly good man, and a good father even if ⑤ he just didn’t have the longevity that I hoped.