For The Love of Small Things

My father and I get into the car.

Our hands are in gloves, our breath suspends briefly then vaporizes in the shiver of January air.

My father turns the engine on. Then, he takes his right glove off and turns on my heated seat. And I love this.

Not because I love heated seats, which I do. But because my father knows that I love heated seats, and he attends to that love.

It is wonderful when others attend to the small things we love. They have paid attention to the way we take our coffee, our penchant for particular notebooks, the music we listen to when we work out. They have noticed a part of us.

So these minor acts are ways of seeing people. Which is anything but minor.

My father pulls the car out of the parking space. My seat heater warms up. But the greater warmth, the one that will outlast all the shiver of January air, is that of being seen.

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