I grew up listening to my dad. Not necessarily doing what I was told, but hearing his voice rumble over the phone at an irritated client, the hesitation as he hovered over foreign american pronunciations. I loved the way his mouth remembered England and held onto it, his accent making everything more serious when he was angry, and all the more hilarious when he was laughing. But my favorite memory by far was when his voice would drop into the sleepy lilting tone only produced when he read aloud our favorite series, Lord of the Rings. He loved those books so much he named me after the flower of the Elves, and every time Elanor was mentioned, his voice would tilt up, glancing at me to see if I had noticed. Of course I always did, and would poke him mercilessly until he read the passage again and again until I had memorized and catalogued it, as if it was written for me. When the chapter reached its end and he had turned the last page, I dreaded the moment when he heaved out a long sigh, the kind that only a dad can make, put the book down and said “That’s it for tonight”.